Thorin's Word A Day
by kkolmakov
Summary: I have subscribed to "A Word A Day" to challenge myself and my writing. They give you a word and a quote each day. I will produce a one-shot, sometimes just a few sentences around each. Original Thorin and Wren *No Infringement Intended* Ratings and moods will vary
1. Chapter 1

**Palmer, **_**noun**_

_**1. A pilgrim.**_

_**2. An itinerant monk.**_

_**3. One who conceals a card or another object in a magic trick on in cheating a game.**_

You swirl the wooden sword in two graceful loops on each side of your body, and then thrust and jab it into his chest. He guffaws and steps back. "Do you find it humourous, my Lord? I am threatening you with a weapon." His smirk is positively indecent. "And you look delectable doing it, my Queen."

You press the point into his sternum. His eyes grow darker. "It is as dangerous as a spoon, my Queen. If you wish to maim, you should try this," he pulls a short wide dagger out of a sheath on his belt. He takes it by the blade and turns the hilt to you. You envelop your fingers around it. It is shorter than the sword, and you have to step closer.

Lowering the wooden sword, you hook the dagger under a clasp on the collar of his long velvet waistcoat and with a swift jerk you slice the fastening. It opens up, and you lick your lips. "If I am allowed to wield this fine blade, my Lord, then why was your daughter given this?" You lift the wooden sword by the pommel with two fingers.

He lowers his eyes and follows the roundness of your breasts with his scorching gaze. "She is a fine fighter, but it is unbecoming for a princess to carry a sword in front of honorary guests. She will get her sword back when their visit is concluded." You lift a brow and swiftly cut another fasting on his waistcoat. "Is it becoming for a Queen to wield a sword?" "The Queen is not running around the halls chopping the chair legs under the guests of Erebor." He cannot suppress a smile. The spectacle of Dain Ironfoot tumbling on the floor was indeed an uproarious one.

"You have offended her, my Lord," the third fastening goes, and the garment is fully open on his chest. "She fears you respect her less since she is a woman." "She is obviously just too young to understand that underneath the surface this house is ruled by a woman," he steps closer and the point actually digs into his tunic.

"Flattery, my Lord?" You slightly lessen the pressure on the blade. "The truth," he is murmuring and grabbing your wrist he removes the dagger out of your hand. He pulls you into him, and then you cut the strings on his tunic with a small blade that was hidden in your sleeve. He shakes his head with a lopsided smirk. "The princess will soon realize, we are all but in your power, my Queen." You wrap your arms around his neck, and he surrenders to your kiss.

**A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:**

The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.

-John Steinbeck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1902-1968)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It is very inappropriate, beware ;) Look at the Word of the Day though. What was I supposed to think?! :)**

**Repletion, **_**noun **_

_**The condition of being completely filled or satisfied.**_

You are burning, carnal hunger flooding your muscles, twisting your wrists, arching your back. You are restless, sheets scratching your oversensitive body, the chambers fleetingly sweltering, and then momentarily cold. You move from one side of the bed to another, writhing under the sheets and burying your face in the pillows. Relief does not come.

The pillow only carries your smell, the soapnuts and sweet clematis. Since your bedding bore the fresh spicy smell of your King's skin, they have changed the sheets twice. His visit to Ered Luin has been stretching endlessly, new and new matters to be discussed, treaties to sign. You did not accompany your King to the trip, preoccupied with your pregnancy with the third child and the older two being a handful. When he was leaving, you two joked that he should not stay away for longer, your unquenchable thirst for him in your parturiencies being your old intimate joke.

You roll on your back and pull the hem of your night shirt up. Your fingers slide on the inner side of your thigh. You close your eyes and bite your lip. The fingers are too soft, missing the callused roughness of your King's pulps. Too cold, too gentle. You move them to your heated center, and stroke the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips jerk up, and you moan. The King's lips, his black beard, with the silver streaks, his tongue lapping on your folds… Raspy gasp slips from your lips. "Thorin..." You give yourself a tighter swirl of a caress, and then the King's low rumble jolts through your body. "I have to say, that is indeed the spectacle I would like to come back to every time I am away, my Queen."

You lift your head and stare at him. He is still clad in his full attire, his cloak in his hands. The candlelight of the bedchamber is gleaming on the plates of the brigandine. "Do not let me interrupt you, my Queen," his voice is low and rough, eyes almost black. You hike up your brows, and then his words reach your understanding. You are hesitating, never previously pursuing such pleasures in front of another.

He slowly puts his cloak on a peg and sits down in his chair near the opposite wall. He is silent, and his gaze is heady. You move the covers off your bent knees, and he inhales, hissing through his teeth. Your nightdress is bunched up on your waist and you are fully exposed to his eyes. You see his chest heaving, and his knuckles are white on the armrests.

You slide your fingers onto your drenched folds and stroke. You close your eyes, this time from acute though not uncomfortable shyness. You caress the folds first, and then you dip a finger into yourself. You hear him groan and his buckle clanks. You pulls the finger out and spread the moist on your labiae. You moan and gasp his name.

Your fingers pick up speed, switching between the strokes of the folds and sinking one inside. "Are you enjoying yourself, my Queen?" His voice is strained, and you understand that his hand is moving on his shaft. You moan and shake your head. "Not enough… Not without you..."

In an instant he is kneeling above you on the bed, one knee presses on the sheets between your legs. His finger dips in your, and you cry out. He adds the second out. and you arch your back, pushing your pelvis into his hand. His thumb rubs your clit, and the climax comes almost immediately, in shocking scorching waves.

You fall on the bed, and he stretches near you. You open your eyes and look into his smiling blue irises. "Are you feeling better, my heart?" "Yes," you move closer to him, the cold of the brigandine in an exciting contrast with your heated skin. "Can't say I'm at least a bit satisfied, my Lord, but the first hunger is less acute now." He guffaws and scoops you in his arms.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

My own experience and development deepen every day my conviction that our moral progress may be measured by the degree in which we sympathize with individual suffering and individual joy.

-George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), novelist (1819-1880)

**A/N#2: I think A Word A Day was just asking for it. Look at the quote they provided to illustrate the usage of their word:**

**"Her body tingled with repletion and yet she was somehow unsatisfied."**

**Susan Swann; The Ritual of Pearls; Little, Brown; 1995.**

**How am I expected to write something demure after that? :) "Repletion", are you kidding me? Being a depraved soul that I am, I wrote smut after getting a prompt "networking"! Btw, "We Are Scattered Through Time and Space" is still open for prompts :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I think "A Word A Day" has issues :) or they are psychic and had a peek into the dark and twisted place that is my mind.**

**Gallivant (galavant), **_**verb intr.**_

_**To roam about in search of pleasure.**_

Two large hands snake under the furs you are resting under, and a large hot body is pressed into your back. You smile but remain still. A palm covers your breast, and you bolt, twisting from under the touch and to the further corner of the tent. You might not have noticed an error in what was happening through the covers at the beginning, but you can never mistake someone else's hand for your King's.

A long narrow dagger is in your hand, and you open up your second palm, a glowing sphere of magic bursting out of your skin, illuminating the insides of the tent.

"Fili?!"

"My Queen?!" He is sitting on your throws and furs. His upper body is only clad in a light shirt, open on his chest. He is barefoot. His blue eyes are widened in terror. You lower the dagger.

"I swear I did not know! I was looking for Miss Thea," he is raising his hands in a desperate gesture. "What?!" He looks pitiful. "It is dark outside." "Are you out of your mind, nephew?! You do not go into a woman's tent uninvited and fondle her bosom!" Oh, wait… You are going to kill her. "Were you invited, Fili?" "Not exactly", he looks at the ground. "But I believe she implied it." Oh, Mahal, help us all.

Suddenly he looks terrified. "Uncle! He is going to chop off my head. I touched!.." He points, then blanches and hides his hand behind his back. "Oh, at least I hope it will be the head." Then he looks at you, "Put out the light, we will be seen from outside!"

What an imbecil! "Yes, we will be. Do you not think it is worse than him finding us here alone in the dark?" You give him a pointed look. "Oh..." Indeed.

The tent's entrance bursts open, and the King storms in with Orcrist clenched in his hand. He looks around the tent, and his eyes darken. You think you hear a small squeak coming from somewhere deep inside of your older nephew by marriage.

"You should congratulate your sister-son, my Lord!" The King turns his livid face to you, but your humourous tone momentarily diverts him. "He is roaming our camp looking for a woman to make a real Dwarf out of him."

Orcrist is pressed into Fili's throat. "In this tent?" The King's voice is low and menacing. There is but a few second before possible decapitation. "Obviously not. But his scouting skills apparently leave much to be desired. I believe he was aiming for the tent five steps to the North."

The King lowers his blade and turns to you. His face is still enraged but there is hint of smile there. "Your guest, my Queen, is nothing but an aggravation." "Which makes her a perfect match for your nephew, my King," your tone is acidic. You do not like people criticizing your oldest friend.

The King is aware of it. He swallows a venomous remark that was ready to leave his lips. "Scram!" He barks to Fili without looking and the latter ungracefully darts out of the tent.

The golden globe is shrinking, leaving only a dim glow in the tent. The King puts the sword down and pulls you into his arms. "I didn't find pleasure in finding a man in your tent, my Queen." "You didn't. You found a boy," a low growl rumbles in his chest. "Was he honestly looking for your friend to make a real Dwarf out of him?" "Isn't it what you were seeking in my bed all those years ago?" "Indeed," he smirks and lowers his lips on yours. "And you have indeed succeeded in it, my Queen."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Man needs to go outside himself in order to find repose and reveal himself.

-José Martí, revolutionary and poet (1853-1895)


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm a bit preoccupied with my thesis, your loveliest prompts for "We Are Scattered Through Time and Space" and of course, "Strike the Cord", so this will be short and silly :)**

**Vituperate, **_**verb tr., intr.**_

_**To use harsh or abusive language.**_

The King's hot heavy body collapses on yours, all muscles in it trembling, his breathing laboured, and he is mumbling in your neck. You are stroking his shoulders and start laughing. A few seconds later, seemingly having recovered from his climax he lifts his face. "How did I manage to amuse you this time, my Queen?" He rolls on his back and presses you into him. The King Under the Mountain is surprisingly affectionate after lovemaking. You settle on his chest and smile into his bright joyful eyes.

"Do you realize, my Lord, that you swear in Khuzdul after your release?" His brows fly up. "Pardon?" "You swear. In Khuzdul. After you spill your seed. Very seldom, but I learnt to understand it as a sign of an especially enraptured release for you, my Lord."

Thorin Oakenshield blushes. Violent heady blush spills on his cheeks, above the black beard, his cheekbones seemingly flaming. His eyes are wide and panicked. "What do I say?" So, he was not aware. "I would not dare repeat it, my Lord." You are struggling with giggling. "Oh Mahal..." He is so obviously embarrassed that you lose your battle and start laughing.

He recuperates and pushes you underneath him and into the sheets. "Do not mock me, my Queen." "I would not dare, my Lord," you wrap your legs around him. You lift your face to him and whisper into his ear. "I very much would like to hear that again." He growl and covers your mouth with his greedy hot lips.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.

-Elie Wiesel, writer, Nobel laureate (b. 1928)


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: "A Word A Day" ignored me yesterday 0_o and today it gave me this. Hm…**

**Distend, **_**verb tr., intr. **_

_**To swell, inflate, or extend.**_

"My King, please be reasonable, you have to let me inspect your shoulder." "I assure you, honourable healer, your services are highly appreciated but not necessary. It is just a scratch." He is trying to avoid your hand stretched towards him. "My King, your shoulder is obviously swollen, and I need to have a look." "I said it is alright, honorable healer." His tone is harsh.

This is your second winter in Erebor and in public you two retain a cold decorum towards each other. Whatever happens in the King's sleeping chambers is a completely different question. You clench your jaw and prepare to wait till later to assert your position. If he prefers to behave stoically in front of his warriors, he has every right. But wait till you get your hands on him! You can be no less stubborn than the headstrong King Under the Mountain. He has nowhere to escape from you, you are hindered in a snowstorm in a small inn in an unassuming village to the North of Ered Luin.

Everyone goes to their room, and you slip to the hall and tiptoe to the King's door. You knock quietly, and the door bursts open. He pulls you in and passionately presses his lips to yours. You grab his shoulder and he hisses. "Bed. Now." He hikes up his brows from never before seen assertiveness in you, and something gleams in his eyes. He slowly sits down on the bed, keeping his burning eyes on you. But then he sees the healer's sack in your hands, and he groans. "Are we back to this discussion, zundush?" "It is not a discussion."

The cut is deep and the flesh around it is swollen. It is unhealthy red, and you tut-tut. The skin is overstretched, and the sides of the wound are jagged. You clean it and apply a balm. The whole time the barechested King sits with a peevish expression on his face. Look at this petulant pout! You are trying to be gentle, but for a second he flinches. You want to apologise, maybe pacify him with kisses, but then you see his cantankerous frown. "Oh, don't be a child, my Lord!"

His eyes widen in disbelief. Such disrespect is hardly the treatment he is used to. You pull the ends of the bandage more roughly than necessary. He hisses. "That will serve you right, my Lord. If you wanted any longer you would have a full scale infection on your hands." He is staring at your with a strange expression.

You put the tools and balms away back into the sack and turn to him. He is immobile on the bed. Is this arousal you see on his face? His pupils are dilated, and the delectable chest rises in shallow breathing. Oh, the King has a kink! You press your hands into your hips. "Under the covers, my Lord. Now." He scoots back and slides under the sheets. Oh, that is simply delightful!

"And goodnight, my King." You pick up the sack and leave the room. That will serve him right! Oh Mahal, what are you going to do with your own arousal now? Well, you have a vivid imagination and plenty of good memories. One of your most favourite memories now will be the astonishment on the King's face when you were closing the door to his chamber. You smile and go back to your room.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Fame is very agreeable, but the bad thing is that it goes on 24 hours a day.

-Gabriel García Márquez, novelist, journalist, Nobel laureate (b. 1927)


	6. Chapter 6

**Manducate, **_**verb tr.**_

_**To chew or eat**_

Thror is a true replica of his father. Stocky, wide shouldered, with large, immensely strong arms. Blue eyes are gleaming with ardour, dark wavy hair to his shoulders. Black thick beard is adorning his face. He is crabby, even more so in the mornings, stubborn, and vain. You adore him with all your heart, furthermore so for the resemblance to his father, but at the moment you consider smacking him at the back of the head. Which no Dwarven mother would do to a youngling half battle age, but you might conveniently remember that you are no Dwarf.

They are both sitting at the table and have breakfast. Peevish faces, drawn brows, noble curved lips pressed together in a pique, and they grumble. For the last half an hour you have been watching two identical jaw lines moving and listening to an endless list of complains that these two Dwarves have about everything that is wrong with this world. Which is literally everything that there is in this world.

The water in the morning was too cold, the sun rose too early, what is indeed wrong with the spring this year, and obviously the swords haven't been sharpened properly. They simultaneously take decorous yet masculine sips from their mugs, and nod solemnly to each other.

"Have you finished your sword training with Kili yesterday, Thror?" The prince makes an irritated face. "He was coddling me again. At least Master Dwalin doesn't. Last week he smashed the hammer into my breastplate so hard that I flew all the way through the training yard." You choke on your seedcake.

Thorin gives you a sideglance. "Do not worry your mother, Thror." "There is nothing to worry about, amad. That is how it should go. I need to learn to take a blow." Would a smack at the back of your head be a good practice? You stuff another piece of cake into your mouth to silence yourself.

You watch your older son meticulously chew a piece of cheese. Thorin picks up another one from a platter for himself. They both share an immense fondness for it. Like two giant black mice, they devour it before you can say "cantankerous Dwarf".

"Oh, I forgot," the prince's face lights up gleefully and you brace yourself. "Uncle Fili promised to gift me with that pair of hunting knives!" He is exuberant. "He said my hands are deft enough for them already! We are to practice with the throwing axe today as well!"

You get up, slam your hands into the surface of the table, and two pairs of cerulean eyes are on you. You take a long breath and without a word you leave the room. Almost running, you are striding to the nursery. Daughter, you have a daughter. In her chambers you will find sanctuary.

The princess jumps out of her closet. She is clad in her father's shirt that is without doubt to represent a brigandine, and with a deafening battle cry "Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" she runs by you shaking a wooden sword in her hand in a pursuit of an imaginary foe. You sit on her bed and groan. Marry a Dwarf and forever live on a battlefield.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Habit with him was all the test of truth, / It must be right: I've done it from my youth. -George Crabbe, poet and naturalist (1754-1832)


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm really not sure where I was going with this... :P**

**Canker**

_**noun: **_

_**1. A source of corruption or decay.**_

_**2. Ulcerous sores in the mouth; also any of various diseases affecting animals and plants.**_

_**verb tr., intr.: **_

_**1. To corrupt or to become corrupted.**_

_**2. To infect with or be infected with canker.**_

"So, you are the woman of Men who married King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror," the man's voice is low, and a shiver runs down your spine. "Lady Filegethiel, Honourable Healer from the City of Dale, Khazad Bahinh, the the Friend-lady of the Dwarves." His Khuzdul is mediocre. You keep your chin lifted and your face haughty.

"The mother of Thror, son of Thorin, and a glorious beauty indeed." You finally look at him and lift a brow. His eyes are hungry, and the smirk is feral. "You have bizarre likings, my Lord. Nowhere in Middle Earth this face is considered alluring." He gives you a dark chuckle.

"And yet they say that the King is enraptured and helpless before you. Some say the destiny of all Durin's folk is in your little hands, my lady." He looks at your hands shackled in heavy metal manacles. "What is it, my lady, that allowed you to bend the implacable, unrelenting Dwarven King to your will?"

You twitch your fingers but the golden spark does not come. Your magic is dormant, ever since you felt the first stirrings of new life in you. It took you a while to realize that the third child in your womb is somehow thwarting your magic. You cautiously assume that he might possess some gift of his own thus hindering yours.

"I am often asked this question, my Lord, yet I have no answer to it." You are reserved yet polite. "I have to contradict you now, my lady, I am certain that your looks have played a part in it." He steps closer and picks up a strand of your hair. You reign your disgust and stay still. He lets the lock run between his fingers and gives you an appraising look. You feel as if he is running his dirty hands over your body. You feel like the filth from his fingers and clothes will seep into your skin. "And the motherhood suits you, my lady."

Your whole body twitches in shock. You were certain that no one knew yet. Even the King. "As small and thin as you are for a woman of presumably Rohirrim blood, bearing the heir to the Durin's throne gave you enticing curves," he lets go of your hair and walks to stand behind your back. You feel the heat of his body behind you, although he is not touching you. Yet. The low back of your dress makes you feel unshielded, and goosebumps cover your skin.

He circles you again. "I am not to harm you in any way, my lady," he gives you a mocking bow. "I would not force the Queen of Erebor to do anything she does not desire." His last word hangs heavily in the air.

There is a narrow Elven blade hidden in the right cuff of your dress. You could probably slice his throat before this sickening salacious smile is gone from his lips. You can almost imagine the surprise in his pale grey eyes when the hot blood pours out of the gash. A fierce hatred floods your chest, and you are momentarily scared of it yourself. You recognize the furious protectiveness that inhabits your mind when you are carrying a child of Thorin Oakenshield under your heart. You felt it with Thror, and you felt in with Unna. But with them you had your magic to protect you. The youngest prince of Erebor left his mother helpless.

Previous times you were only stronger, emotions and passions always augmenting your abilities. When protecting what you love, you can burn down villages and once you sliced a warg in half with a raging wall of golden fire. Right now, you can only rely on your blade, and you are not certain how many full sized men you can take down.

"What I am curious about though is where is the Queen of Erebor travelling to? These are dark times to voyage along the banks of the Greaylin and Anduin, my lady." "My companions," your heart clenches at the thought of the six Dwarves slayed just a few hours ago, "and I were on our way to the Kingdom of Lord Elrond, he is expecting my visit."

"Another King at your feet, my lady," the revolting smile on his face is highly suggestive. "There are rumours that even the cold King of Mirkwood has not been able to resist your charms, my lady."

"My visit to the Riverdell is of official nature. I am to meet the Council of Istari." You are hoping that will frighten him, but he leans on a tall wooden table and picks up a goblet. He sips his wine and looks at your inquisitively. "The old wizards are of no threat to me, my lady. They do not interfere in the matters of simple men such as myself. Was the purpose of your visit so important that they will come looking for you in these forgotten lands around the Greylin River?"

You are certain that it is not. You were to meet Gandalf the Grey who was coming to see you upon your polite request. As you had promised him many years ago you were to seek his advice regarding your magic.

The man puts the goblet down and moves closer to you. He is drunk, and the red spots on his cheeks are the sign of nothing good. He approaches you and touches the necklace clasped around your collar bones. "Here in the ruins of the proud city of Framsburg we, the scum and the derelicts from all over Middle Earth, hear a lot of rumours of the splendourous life of Erebor, Dale and the Elvenking's Halls while we wallow in the mire and hide from the world. And I have heard of Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum. They say the glory of it cannot be compared to any other treasure the King Under the Mountain possesses, but I dare to argue this statement now." He suddenly grabs the hair at the back of your head and pulls it down making you lift your face to him. The pain is so sharp that you feel tears bursting from your eyes. "I have changed my mind, my lady. You should be afraid. I will probably find my death by a Dwarven axe for the despicable pleasures I will receive from this night but my Queen will not live to see that day." He lowers his face to yours while his second hand rudely slides down your cleavage on the naked skin of your breast.

The gurgling noise he makes when the blade goes through his throat is music to your ears, and then you recoil and drop the dagger. He is convulsing on the ground, scarlet blood freely flowing on the floor, squirting from the incision on the side of his neck. Many years of practicing surgery taught you where to place your blow so that the victim would not manage any sound.

You step away from the body, your breathing shallow, nausea rising in you. You do not remember executing this blow. You do not remember deciding to do so. You look at your blood covered palm. It is not shaking. You press it to your stomach.

The sudden loud noise in the halls outside the chamber you are in cannot be misapprehended. It is the sound of clashing weapons and men screaming, meeting their death. You reel from the door, and it bursts open. The Elvenking Thranduil is standing on the threshold, his astonishing blue eyes burning, the nostrils of his noble long nose flaring. In his hand you see his long curved sword, red blood dripping from its tip. His perfect, as if chiseled in marble face, always so haughty and calm, is distorted in anger and worry. His virile body is clad in the light intricate Elven armour. "Lady Filegethiel…" He almost makes a step towards but then he notices the body on the floor and the blood on your hand. Then his eyes shift on blood stain on your dress on your stomach. He steps over the body of the malefactor and stretches his hand to you. "Are you hurt, my lady?" "It is not my blood."

He steps even closer, and then his face becomes thoughtful. You realize he is listening to the sound of a tiny heart beating in you. His face is unreadable once again. "Another heir to the line of Durin?" You nod. He lowers his head in a ceremonial bow. "Congratulations, my lady." You step closer to him, and your knees buckle. He catches you and picks you up in his arms.

It feels like being held by a statue, hard, tense muscles, long tendons and delicate veins under the perfect pale skin, his body is unwavering and cold. He shifts you so that your head falls on his shoulder, forehead pressed into his neck. His skin bears the smell of Mirkwood as you remember it in the late spring, grasses and flowers gently swaying in the playful breeze. And yet, it feels that you are indeed pressed into a male body, ample and alive. The strong pulse is beating on his neck, and you feel sheltered and suddenly drowsy. "Sleep, Filegethiel, the Gem of Erebor. You are safe."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

My country is the world, and my religion is to do good.

-Thomas Paine, philosopher and writer (1737-1809)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Are they kidding me with this word?! :)**

**Polyphiloprogenitive, **_**adjective**_

**Extremely prolific; producing offspring, young, fruit, etc., abundantly.**

The King's lips are sliding on the back of your neck, you feel the touch of the hot tongue to your nape and shiver. The beard tickles you and after so many years you recognise the sensation as the sign that he is smiling into your skin. His hand picks up the braids from your back and tosses them gently aside. You are stretched on the bed on your stomach, and he is half covering you with his weight. Supporting himself on his elbow, he presses you down with his bent leg, the palm of his other hand stroking your buttocks.

He is kissing behind your ear, his intentions quite clear. "Thorin…" He hums to show that he is listening, busy bunching up your skirt. "We need to talk about some pressing matter." "Can't it wait?" You feel his scorching palm on the naked skin of your thigh below the drawers. "I am very sorry, my King, but no," you twist out of the entrapment of his extremities and sit on your knees in front of him. He drops his head back on the bed with a groan. And then peeks from a corner of his eye to see if you are overwhelmed with compassion towards him. You lift a brow.

He sighs and sits up. "I do realize since this matter seems to distract you from you favorite pastime, my Queen, it must be of great importance." Oh, the nerve in this Dwarf! On the other hand, he is right. And that is exactly what got you into this aggravation in the first place.

You look at your hands. He is waiting and a tender smile is playing on his lips. He is such a beautiful man. The years spent with him do not seem to dull your appreciation for the King's appearance and allure. In the recent years the silver in his mane and beard is more prominent, he is reaching the second decade of his third century, but you predict him to have an exceptionally long life for a Dwarf. He is virile, ample and spirited. And endlessly appetizing.

He picks up a strand of your hair and twists it around is finger. "How does it happen that your hair is the same colour that the day we met?" You are surprised by his seeming ability to read your thoughts. Years of marriage tend to bear unexpected fruit. "All the silver is concealed at the bottom, my Lord." You pick up the mass of your hair and lift it. And indeed, there is plenty of sterling hiding in there. He pushes you into the sheets. "Nonsense, you look exactly the same as that quarrelsome healer I found sneaking around my halls." "I was lost!" He lowers his lips to your ear and murmurs, "I didn't believe you then, and do not believe you now. You were looking for me."

You laugh and suddenly wrap your legs around him. For the next few minutes it is all lips caressing and hands stroking. You feel the King getting impatient and you have to halt him. "Thorin, we still have not discussed the matters we need to attend to." He is kissing your collarbone. "Hurry up then, my Queen. I am starved," his tone is suggestive. "Your hunger, my Lord, is what got us into this predicament. Again."

He manages to place two more short kisses on your skin before the understanding comes. He freezes and then slowly lifts his eyes at you. You are waiting for a reaction. He blinks, then again, opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He coughs and tries again, "How?" His voice is raspy.

"I would assume by now you should know, my Lord." "You are still nursing!" After being in this situation thrice, the King is rather knowledgeable in the matter. "It happens." "You are over four decades old!" "Are you reminding a woman of her age, my Lord?" Your tone is haughty. "Dwarves do not have more than two children!" "Well, you have already exceeded the expectations with the previous one."

He sits up and presses his palm to his forehead. You start chuckling. The gesture is melodramatic and unbecoming a proud Dwarven warrior, but amusingly familiar. That is how the news were met the very first time. You know what follows. A prolonged stupour, with occasional blinking and then overbearing but still endearing protectiveness and meddling in all your affairs, including what you eat and where you are allowed to go till the joyous day.

The King sighs and lowers his head in acceptance. "A boy?" His tone is still bewildered but hopeful. "Yes," you smile. He smiles back. Then he pulls you closer and kisses you passionately. "Let us hope for one thing, my Queen." "Which is?.." "That this one will not be moving his cot around the room with his magic." As they say, hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

In a library we are surrounded by many hundreds of dear friends imprisoned by an enchanter in paper and leathern boxes.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson, writer and philosopher (1803-1882)


	9. Chapter 9

**Conterminous, **_**adjective**_

_**1. Having a common boundary.**_

_**2. Confined within one common boundary.**_

_**3. Having the same scope, in time, meaning, etc.**_

Your two youngest children are chalk and cheese. From quite an early age they are often mistaken by other races for being twins, though very different in appearance they are the same height through most of their lives. Not by the Dwarves though, who do not have two children at once, the smallest difference between siblings being six years. Dain and Othin are viewed as a miracle of Erebor, the latter born only two years after his brother.

The older one of the two brothers is the least Dwarven in appearance among your children, lither and thinner than the rest, hair of chestnut brown, eyes green as leaves of the oaktree he was conceived under. He has his father's profile and curved lips.

Othin is stocky, close in his build to the King and Thror, the oldest prince of Erebor. He has your wide open brown eyes, and he is always smiling. If angered or frustrated, he fights and rages, but still with a grin on his face. He is always looking for trouble and finding it. When punished for yet another broken bow stolen from older warriors or ponies let out of the stables, he gives an apologetic smile as if telling, "But wasn't the fun worth it?". He is easy to understand and predict.

His older brother is anything but. Quiet, seemingly lost in his thoughts, he is the closest to you of all your children. He is a skillful swordsman, the only one allowed to touch the King's renowned sword. He is deadly and unpredictable in a fight, while his younger brother is all brutal force and lunge. Othin wields a battle hammer and keeps it under his bed. Dain never uses his magic in training fights.

Dain is the only of your sons who remains close to you after he reaches the age when he is allowed to train with older Dwarves. He still comes to you in the evenings after the day in the training yard. When he knows that no one will see you two, he lies his head on your lap while you sit on a large bench reading your books. His hair is soft and runs through your fingers.

Since Othin learnt to walk he is always somewhere above your eye level. First, you had to take him off tall shelves and more often that you care to remember from the canopy of your bed. The King retains the habit of checking the bedroom for his youngest son before pulling on the strings on your tunic long after Othin moves into his separate chambers on the other side of the royal halls.

Later, he is often seen climbing on the supports in the mines and forges under the Lonely Mountain. He is the only Dwarf you know who is fond of heights. You suspect that he probably hates them like any other but cannot pass any challenge in front of him. For the same reason he often demands his brother to practice swording with him. After five minutes he lifts his face from the muddiest puddle in the yard, Dain takes additional pride in knocking him down in the most humiliating spot, and grins, "Again!".

"Again!" was his first word. The King was teasing him with a rattle and then gently thumped him to the top of the head, when the prince was too slow to batter it away. "Again!" He was laughing and baring his teeth. Many years later this wide ferocious smile will be the biggest fear of his foes at the battlefield.

Dain learns to read very young and seems to be entranced with the Library. Sometimes you have to remind him to go to bed. Myrna, the Erebor librarian, secretly, or at least she thinks so, brings him food there. He never takes time from his training to read but his sleep and rest often suffer.

The first burst of Dain's magic comes with his first breath and his first scream. The circumstances of his birth are so ungovernable, the King being the only person with you that day, stranded in the middle of a storm with nothing to assist you in labour but one blanket and a bucket of water. The golden sparks hit the King into the face, rush through his arms, umbilical cord still connecting you and your son. Dain's second furious scream is louder and the walls are shaking from the surge of his magic.

He learns to reign it early, in simple perfect harmony, while you after half century of coexisting with yours still feel like it is an untamed beast on a feeble leash. Dain is entertaining his brother in his cot by producing golden balls bouncing from walls and ceiling. He hides his magic from everyone else except you and his brother, until the King takes him into his study and they have a long conversation there, the contents of which you never find out. Dain comes out of the chamber with straighter shoulders and more self-assurance that you have ever seen in him before that day.

You walk through a passage and hear soft quiet voices from one of the alcoves. Your two youngest children are sitting in front of each other, some small object between them concealed by their bodies. Their heads are touching, lowered over whatever seems to absorb their attention so much. You peek. It is a dead frog.

Othin's voice is full of tears. "I didn't mean to… I didn't see him there, just put the hammer down..." It is the rarest picture, your youngest without a smile on his face. He is nine and for Dwarves he is still almost an infant. But not for his older brother. Dain is frowning and gently touches the leg of the animal. "Even if you didn't mean it, it is your fault. He was alive and now he is dead." Othin sobs. "Can't you do anything? Like you did with the bird's wing."

"The bird was injured, this one is dead. Do you know what dead is, Othin?" Othin nods. "Would he have a bit of life left in him?" he sounds hopeful. "He is not completely squished." Dain sighs. "I'll try but you have to remember what he looks like now, Othin. See this?" He lifts the front paw and it falls floppily on the floor. Othin sobs again. "That what hammers and swords do. You have to remember when you lift them that is how it ends."

And then he covers the little slimy body with his palm, and warm golden glow surrounds the frog. Othin is holding his breath. The long webbed legs twitch, and the frog jumps up, fully recovered and only slightly squished.

Your sons laugh and catch it. "Let's put him back where you took him," Dain's voice is soft. It reminds you of your own voice when talking to the King when he is repentant after some mistake he made. The tone reassures that all is forgiven but reminds that nothing is ever fully forgotten.

You step in the shadow and watch the two princes walk pass you through the passages, shoulders touching, both staring at the thrashing frog in Dain's gentle hands. Mother's love for her children is undoubting and eternal but at the moment you also feel pride and gratitude for being the one who brought these lives into this world.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Remorse is a violent dyspepsia of the mind.

-Ogden Nash, poet (1902-1971)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Apparently, "A Word A Day" is having a 20-letter word week. Interesting :) **

**Also, I actually laughed out loud when I saw the today's prompt. It was my favourite book when I was small, along with "Lady Jane" by Cecilia Jameson. As you can gather, I had a privileged and isolated childhood; where did all the depravity come from, I wonder?**

**What made me really laugh is the fact that in no universe any hypothetical child of Thorin Oakenshield can have anything in common with LLF! :D**

**Little Lord Fauntleroy, **_**noun**_

_**An innocent child; also a very polite and well-dressed child.**_

Your only female offspring, Unna, the daughter of Thorin, by the age of 30, a mere youngling for a Dwarf, has determined the two main interests in her life. They are weaponry and coquetry.

She is beautiful and sensual, with her thick luscious hair inherited from her father and the dark brown eyes of your mother, and if that doesn't gain her a heart of yet another misfortunate Dwarf who was unlucky enough to catch her ardent, though fleeing interest, her exceptional swording skills and expertise in weaponry definitely do.

She is the daughter of her father. If she desires, she acquires.

She is in no way promiscuous, she is flirty, yet judicious. Sometimes you have a feeling that conquering and breaking hearts for her is a sort of a game, as if she is keeping an immaculate score record in her head. She never seems to feel too deeply towards her suitors, always more interested in acquiring a new skill in crafts, and even less so she is concerned with their destiny after she finds a different object of desire.

She is a genuine Dwarven woman, chaste in everything but words, prepared, if it is ever to come, to mate for life and belong to her husband fully. Except not any time soon, since for her there is still so much to learn and to try.

Out of all your children she seems to suffer most from her mixed descent. Since she was a small child, she lamented her narrower than characteristic for a Dwarven woman waist and her soft facial features, as well as her inability to grow a lush beard, which became obvious quite early. As a child she compensated by beating up other girls, and boys for that matter, who dared say something or even look at her the wrong way. In many cases the offenses for which she was punishing them were the fruit of her own imagination.

You suspect that her reaping of poor defenseless hearts now that she is turning into an alluring young woman is the grown-up equivalent of pushing a Dwarven child face down into a sticky mud puddle.

Having insisted that her older brother and Master Dwalin were to teach her basics of the sword and axe fight, to your dire horror, she became a skilled warrior, her flexible and lighter build an actual advantage for once. She is so adept that the King gifts her with a short Dwarven sword at the age of ten. She also possesses several sets of throwing knives, mostly gifts from her favourite cousin, so called Uncle Fili.

Unlike her brother Dain, she does not manifest any magical abilities, though when pregnant with her you felt some strange magic swirling in your blood. You suspect that even if she possesses any, she probably rejected it so decisively, it has been thwarted at the root.

She renounces your magic and your weak human nature, and it takes you both a few years to find your footing in your relationships. You do not share any interests. Books and healing never spark any curiosity in her. You do not approve of her abusing her feminine charms to get what she wants and her greed for gold though you expected it being a daughter of Dwarf. You often have heated discussions that make the King and her brothers flee into the Lower Halls.

For the first time in your life you feel that you have to prove your worth. You have always been certain that the way you build your life is the right path for you and of your concern only. And there you are, staring in the eyes of a stubborn Dwarven youngling, and these eyes are full of doubt and deprecation.

You win her over. You spar with her, again and again getting an upper hand, thrust after thrust, striking her breast plate, knocking a shield out of her hands, pushing her on the ground, your sword again and again pressed to her throat. You take her into the city on your rounds, and as much as she hates the tedious hours of attending to the sick and the expectant mothers, she has to see the respect and loyalty of your people towards you. You allow her to be present at the royal council and to hear the King asking your advice and older Dwarves attentively listening to your judgement.

You have long conversations and achieve a certain degree of understanding. You accept each other and establish boundaries. Each one of you honours the path the other chose in her life. She understands that your demure attires and soft manners do not mean you are weak or simple. You allow her continue her sportive ways, surrounded by her peers, showing her that you trust her judgement.

The day when you become true friends and you feel you finally gained her respect is the day when the Elvenking Thranduil and his son Legolas arrive to Erebor with their first official visit since the fallout with King Thror.

Afterwards, you think that until that day Unna's perception of Elves was only built on what the other Dwarves would tell her about them, and although your peoples have established a friendly alliance, the eternal animosity will never be forgotten between your races.

Unna is not allowed out of her chambers that day according to old Dwarven traditions of concealing their females from others. She is overwhelmed with curiosity, and you allow her and several of her girlfriends to peek through the window of your chamber when the procession of Silvan Elves arrives, their green banners and glowing argent armour standing out on the familiar landscape of Erebor.

After the official meetings and celebratory dinner you accompany the King of Mirkwood on his walk through the halls of Erebor. A small smile plays on his lips and you return it in a quiet companionship and silence. You both are obviously reminded of the walks you have partaken when expecting Unna you stayed in his Kingdom.

"I am pleased to see that time does not take its toll on you, my lady," Thranduil's voice is low and enticing. "Whether it is Elven blood running in your veins, or your magic hindering your mellowing, I am happy that you retain your radiance and vitality." You lift your eyes at him. He stops and turns to you. "For the sake of your children, of course." You smile to him and nod. He picks up your hand and his cold finger gently press onto yours.

You hear a rustling sound and turn your head. Unna is frozen at her steps, her brown eyes wide open and her shoulders trembling. For a second you allow yourself to admire your daughter. Attired in a heavy draped dress according to the latest fashion, elegant jewels of the most precious gems gleaming on her neck and hands, a few gems hiding in her luscious dark curls, she is a child anyone would be proud to present to their guests. Even if the guest happens to be an Elf. What Unna does not understand yet is that your blood made her attractive to the eyes of other races besides the Dwarves. Her father's straight noble nose and your sensual line of lips, such different features fused in a harmonious and graceful visage.

"Unna, allow me to introduce King Thranduil, the Lord of the Woodland Realm. My daughter, Unna, daughter of Thorin, princess of Erebor." The Elvenking lets go of your hand and gives her a small, slow bow. She bows in return, her lips quivering.

"I can tell that you were fortunate to inherit the most invaluable qualities from your parents, Unna, daughter of Thorin." She is pinned down under the cold gaze of the Elvenking's remarkable eyes. You can see that she is taking short shuddered breaths. "Your mother's wisdom, acumen and life force. And her beauty is quite pronounced in your features, Unna, daughter of Thorin, as well as her loyalty and devotion."

King Thranduil tilts his head and his lips twitch, which would go doubtlessly unnoticed by any other, but after knowing him for so long, for you it looks as if he is grinning from cheek to cheek. You give a small cough. "And your father's determination." He confers.

She gives him another bow and hastily departs. Later that night you are preparing for bed, and she knocks at the door of your dressing room. You seat her on a large bench by the window and let her ask. You tell her of your life as a healer in Dale, of meeting the King Under the Mountain, of choosing Erebor as your home, of your magic and the interest the Elves and Istari have in it. It was brought from over the seas in the heart of one man and passed on to your mother through his forbidden love to your grandmother. You tell her how the magic allows you to see into the hearts of others and protect the ones you love. Such as it happened when carrying her under your heart, you were wounded on the borders of the Woodland Realm and how you were healed by the magic and herbs of King Thranduil.

"He was holding your hand, amad," her voice is low and trembling. "We are good friends," you smile to her, "As much as a Dwarf can be friends with an Elf." She does not say it but you know that defiance stirs in her. "As I have chosen King Thorin over any other, thusly I chose Erebor over any other race and kingdom." She is frowning, considering your words. "You have chosen adad as your King?"

You smile and for the first time feel like a genuine mother to her. You stroke her silken hair, so similar to her father's, and speak softly, "I have chosen him as the King of my heart. One day you will surrender your heart to a man as well, and you will know the clarity and belonging it brings. And how nothing can obscure your understanding of who you are anymore after that. Not even a glorious creature such as the Elvenking Thranduil."

She jerks up her face and looks at you in shock. You smile to her, and she giggles. "They are quite striking, aren't they?" Her tone is mischievous and you both laugh. "And remarkable swordmen as well. I have seen Legolas in a fight. He can almost be compared to your adad in his mastery of a single-edged blade." Her eyes widen even more. She moves closer. "But they are so pale, fragile, thin…" "I am pale and thin, and yet I can still drop you on your backside any day." She guffaws. "I thought they would seem repulsive. But they are so..." She inhales but no right word seems to come. You laugh and she joins you.

That is how the King finds you two, arms wrapped around each other, whispering and snickering. "What are you two up to here?" His question is met with a roar of laughter. She gets up to leave and gives you a warm smile. "Good night, Unna." "Good night, amad. Can we have another talk like that tomorrow again?" "Of course. And maybe have a small walk together. On the Western balcony over the Upper Halls." She giggles and leaves the room. The Western balcony gives a wonderful view of the training yard and your guests were invited for a few rounds of sparring the next day.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Humans think they are smarter than dolphins because we build cars and buildings and start wars, etc., and all that dolphins do is swim in the water, eat fish, and play around. Dolphins believe that they are smarter for exactly the same reasons.

-Douglas Adams, writer, dramatist, and musician (1952-2001)


	11. Chapter 11

**Anthropomorphization, **_**noun**_

_**Attribution of human qualities to things not human.**_

You are sitting on the bed facing each other, the King's length buried deep in you, your hands splayed on his back, one of his buried in your hair, legs crossed behind each other. The movements are long and reaching deep inside you, unhurried and loving.

"Describe it to me," he is murmuring into your ear. In the leisure evening hours when the whole night is ahead of you and nothing to interrupt the lovemaking the King is fond of bedchamber talk.

"It is very long, my Lord," you are smiling and scrape the back of his head with your nails. "And very, very wide. I doubt other men would manage such copiousness." He hums in approval. "It is almost disproportional except its dimensions are so harmonious." The King thrust harder, and you drop your head back.

"Don't stop," he sucks on your neck, and you moan. "Its amplitude is magnificent, such thrust and such scope… Oh..." It is getting harder to be coherent.

"And?..." The King is snarling through his teeth as well. "And the curve… is… oh… magnificent… magical… Oh!" The climax floods you, and you mewl and grind your center into him.

He picks you up and topples you into the sheets. A few sharp deep thrusts, and he collapses in rapture.

You both are breathing heavily. "What were we talking about?" He is pressing his forehead into your neck. "Orcrist, my Lord, we were talking about your sword." "A rewarding topic for a conversation," he is panting, "Give me a jiffy and I would like to return to it."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

In order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed: they must be fit for it; they must not do too much of it; and they must have a sense of success in it. -John Ruskin, author, art critic, and social reformer (1819-1900)


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Well, that certainly galloped away from me :) into a very interesting *cough* depraved, steamy and rough *cough* direction. Proceed on your own risk! :)**

**Silk-stocking district, **_**noun**_

_**A part of a city inhabited by the rich and powerful.**_

The King is baring his teeth, his hand painfully gripping your upper arm. He is dragging you behind him, you can hardly keep up, your feet missing steps. A servant turns from around a corner, but seeing his enraged ruler, striding through a passage, pulling you after him, the Dwarf wisely chooses to scurry into a nearest chamber.

The King pushes you into his study and slams the door behind him. You flinch away. "Have I not been clear?!" He is yelling, blue eyes burning, hands fisted. "Have I not been clear that you are under no circumstances to go to the lower city?! Answer me!" You recoil but lift your chin defiantly. "It was my duty..."

He interrupts with another roaring shout. "You were not to go there! The decision was made!" "They were sick, I'm a healer!" You yell back. His face is livid, and he grabs your shoulders. He gives you a hard shake. "You are the Queen. You could have been infected!" "They are my subjects as much as they are yours, and my duty is..." "Enough! You are forgetting your place!"

You feel fury rising in you. "And where is this place, my Lord? Am I to demurely sit and embroid in my parlours?! I was a healer long before I became your Queen!" "You have a child now, your place is near him!"

"Choose your words wisely, my King! The next thing you are going to say is that my place is in bedchambers and in kitchens overlooking dinner menus!"

He grabs you and slams your back into the door. "I will lock you up in those bedchambers if you don't start to obey!" You are trying to twist out of his grip. "I will not obey your despotic orders, even if you lock me in the dungeons!" You can see his last resolve snaps in front of your eyes, and you are terrified. He is terrifying, all fire and rage.

He snarls through his teeth and presses his mouth to yours. You try to jerk your face away and thrash in his hands. He presses one of his forearms across your chest, pinning you to the door, the second hand jerking your skirt up. You try to kick him but he presses your legs down with his knee. You bite his lip in retaliation, and he gnarls. You hear the buckle on his trousers clank.

His hand cups you between your legs roughly. And to your shame you realize you are aroused and he knows it, his hand no doubt feeling the wetness on your drawers. He pushed your legs wider apart with his knee and grabs the shoulder of your dress. The fabric tears loudly, and he bites into your shoulder.

And then you regain lucidity. "Thorin, stop!" You try pushing him away with your free hand. His arm is still pressing your upper body to the wall, the second hand gripping your wrist, certainly bruising your skin. "Please, Thorin..." Your voice is weak. But he hears and halts. He lets you go and stumbles back, his chest heaving, eyes suddenly horrified.

You step ahead and press yourself into him. He is frozen, arms hanging along his body. You wrap your arms around his neck. "I am alright, I'm alright," you are murmuring and stroke his immobile shoulders. He tries to step back. "No! Don't go, stay with me!" Your voice is panicked. "I could have… hurt you..." "I'm alright, I am. Please, Thorin, I need you!"

He snaps out of his stupour and embraces you. You are reaching for his mouth but he still tries to move away. You grab the back of his head and pull his mouth on yours. After an instant of resistance, he moans and kisses you deeper. You grab his hand and lead it to slide under your skirt. He moans in protest into your mouth, but you insist. "I need you now, I want you now, please..."

He groans and picks you up. He puts you on his desk, and you spread your knees. He steps between your legs and you bunch your skirt and pull your drawers down. He pushes into you, and you cry out.

He is still for a second, fully sheathed in you. You see that his face is pained and regretful. "Please, please, you need to show me..." You do not know for what exactly you asking, but he starts moving. The perturbation of the few moments ago mixed with shame pushes him ahead, his thrusts sharp and deep, and you are crying out, clawing at his shoulders and then you fall back on the desk, spread in front of him. His hands grab your hips, and he pounds harder and deeper into you. You are sobbing, your back arched, and you climax. Your body is thrashing, hands grasping your breasts, one of them scratching naked skin, where the torn dress slid down.

He releases into you, his seed hot and fast surging into you, and with a raspy moan he falls ahead on your body. Your breaths the only sound in the room, you gently run your fingers through his hair.

He presses his face into you. "I got scared that you would get sick as well…" He is whispering, hardly audible. "I am a healer, my King, it is my duty. I cannot stay in the privileged halls when I have patients in the poor parts of Erebor." You stroke his nape now. "I saved many lives today. I wanted you to be proud of me." Your voice breaks, and he lifts his guilty eyes at you. "All I could think that if the worst were to happen, you would leave me and Thror…" You touch the side of his face.

"You can't lock me up in the Royal Halls, Thorin." He sighs and nods. He kisses your palm. "I know. And I am sorry..." He looks at your naked shoulder and his jaws clench. You cup his face and make him look you into the eyes. "Next time try talking to me," he nods again, repentant and mournful. "And I want a new dress, this one was my favourite."

THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

In this world, you must be a bit too kind to be kind enough.

-Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Marivaux, dramatist and novelist (1688-1763)


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Somehow my teacher of Latin used to use this expression a lot, and that is what prompted the drabble :)**

**Also, yes, the previous AWAD piece was supposed to be slightly alarming. After all, it's not a labrador puppy, it's a rage prone Dwarf. Wren is just very smart in managing him, but he is still very uncontrollable and dangerous. But our Wren is a trooper! :)**

**Light stuff this time to cheer us all up! **

**Secret of Polichinelle, **_**noun **_

_**A supposed secret that's widely known: an open secret.**_

"No, my Lord, you can't! That is just a wrong curve. For once, you have to follow instructions. You can't bend it this way." "I can, and I will, zundush." He is kissing behind your ear. "Then you will get a sloppy and inadequate result, my Lord." "I still _will _get a result." "Yes, but do you want it to be so unsatisfactory?"

He pauses his exploration of the back of your neck with his lips and peeks over your shoulder. You are sitting at his desk, in his chair, and he is caging you with his arms, his hands on the armrests.

"Would you like to try again, my Lord?" He sighs and takes a quill in his hand. To do so he presses himself into you, and you start suspecting that that was the sole purpose of this class. He attempts a fricative _v_ again, but the result is indeed sloppy since, though he is keeping his eyes on the paper, he is simultaneously kissing your jaw.

"That's a different letter, my Lord, you forgot the little ear over here." You point at the right side of the symbol. "Now it is a _b_," he catches your earlobe between his teeth.

You twist from under his greedy mouth and turn in the chair. "Are you even interested in learning the alphabet, my Lord?" You are giving him a stern look that does not deceive either of you. "Yes, of course," his eyes are wide open and honest. Again, neither of you is deceived.

You give him a skeptical look over and turn back to the table. You pick up a quill and fix his _v. _"You have to keep an eye on all your ears, tails and legs," he chortles, you roll up your eyes, he cannot see you anyways, you can afford a gesture so unbecoming a lady, "when you build your text, you will have to be careful, since you can go left to right, and right to left," his hand snakes around your jaw and he tilts your head for better access, "Rumil, the chronicler of Valinor was ambidextrous."

He is sucking on the muscle between your neck and shoulder now, gently pulling the collar of your dress aside with one finger. Two can play this game. "You can also go top to bottom," his lips halt, "that would be from the right side, and again," you slightly turn your head to him and lift your brow, "top to bottom, from the left." He chuckles.

You look back and the paper and execute a perfect_ w. _"That is a glide, my Lord, a _w._" He looks at it and snorts. "No, it is not, my lady." "Are you doubting my expertise in languages, my Lord? If not a letter of the noble ancient alphabet of Sarati, what is it then?"

"That, my honourable healer," he slides his hands along your arms, effectively pressing every inch of his body to yours, as much as it is possible in this position. His lips are near your ear, "Is an organ that you will get intimately familiar with in a few seconds."

You laugh and start turning in the chair, when the door bursts open. The King jumps back with an astonishing grace and vitesse. The King's younger sister-son rushes in and freezes by the door. You are desperately grasping to a delusion that you are not blushing but there is very little hope. Kili bows, "Lady Filegethiel."

"What is it, Kili?" The King's voice is calm and collected. He is also standing behind the chair to conceal his raging erection. "Pardon me, uncle, I did not know you were preoccupied." "It is my usual time for a language class with the honourable healer."

"I apologise, I will return later," Kili is backtracking to the door and when he has almost closed it, his brother runs into him. "Aren't we going in?" You can hear the lower voice of the older sibling. The door is almost closed but you catch the last phrase. "They are snogging there again, may be we should come back in a couple hours."

The latch on the door clicks, and the King starts laughing.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from that of their social environment.

-Albert Einstein, physicist, Nobel laureate (1879-1955)


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This one is a quickie :) I am so preoccupied with this new project of mine (oh, I so hope you'll love it, my lovelies! It is such a delicious excitement! can't wait to share it with you when the time comes:), so just a wee bit of mushy goodness this time:)**

**Ponderous, **_**adjective**_

_**1. Having great weight.**_

_**2. Awkward or unwieldy.**_

_**3. Dull or laborious.**_

You are in pain, your head feels full of boiling melted lead, your skin is oversensitive. You are closing your eyes willing the distress into the back of your mind. You clench your jaws and just hope the end is near. You are telling yourself that in a few short moments you will find repose.

You run into your dressing chamber and rush to the mirror. You pull the heavy jewels out of your hair, the pins fall on the floor with a clank, the string of gems pulled out and you grab the end of the ribbons. One sharp jerk, and the braids fall like heavy thick snakes on your back. You bury your fingers into the hair at the roots, and an overwhelming shudder of pleasure runs through your body. You moan and rake your hands through the copper curls. They strew on your shoulders, and smaller coils spring to life and surround your head with a flaming nimbus.

You shake your head and puff the hair up. A few vigorous movements of your splayed fingers, and you imagine how the unruly locks rejoice and finally revolt against the constricting rule of the heavy, oppressing Dwarven traditional hairstyle.

The King is leaning at the door frame with one shoulder and smirks. You give your mane another shake and moan again. "You seem to be enjoying this a great deal, my Queen," he come from behind and buries his fingers in your mane as well. You moan louder and lean back onto his chest. He whispers into your ear, "Share the treat, my Queen." He runs the fingers through the curls, and you smile. The pain is so worth the gain!

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

I dreamt that my hair was kempt. Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.

-Ogden Nash, poet (1902-1971)


	15. Chapter 15

**Quondam, **_**adjective **_

_**Former; onetime.**_

Dain is watering the pots with sage and thyme. You pretend to be absorbed in your book, not to embarrass him. He would not enjoy if you were looking at him, as he is also talking to the plants, murmuring gentle nonsenses to them, stroking the leaves. After a few years in Erebor, the King gifted you with a garden in the higher halls, part of it indoors, warmed up with large stoves, part outside, where your plants can enjoy sunlight. Now that you have Dain you seem to spend more time in here than ever.

He is rubbing a fragrant leaf, his beautiful narrow face pensive, framed with wavy chestnut hair, two thick braids, his bright green eyes adorned with the thickest, longest eyelashes, an envy of most Dwarven girls around him. He licks his bottom lip, in a gesture so similar to his father's, the same strong but sensual line of mouth.

"I have a question, amad," his tone is soft. You love Dain's questions, they are always complicated, come out of the blue and his train of thought is virtually impossible to follow sometimes. He is eighteen, for a Dwarf he is just a child but you know that his intellect and imagination, as well as your blood of Men, make him a much more mature eighteen year old than his peers.

"You may ask it, Dain," you put the book aside.

"Have you loved anyone other than Father?" His slanted eyes are calm, almost unemotional, but you can see the fire hiding in them.

By now you know that to ask Dain for a reasoning behind his questions is a direct path to make him withdraw into the shell of his mind and abandon his line of inquiry. Honesty and openness seem to be the best approach with your third child, his questions often spurring the most exquisite of discussions between you two.

"Have I ever loved another man before your Father?" He nods and then adds in his usual even, nonchalant tone, "Or a woman. And not only before. Ever." He is cutting off the top leaves from a thyme shrub. "Yes, once. Before I met your father, there was a man who occupied my heart. With time I understood that we were not meant to be and left. It was many years before I met your adad."

A few moments pass in silence. You are gazing on your son. When absorbed in his thoughts he seems almost ethereal, as if stepping behind an invisible veil, only half present in this world, a surprising quality for a Dwarf, as they are such grounded creatures, all fire and stone.

"Do you regret it?" You smile. Always so perceptive, so inquisitive. "How can one regret something that one does not have any control over, Dain?" He lifts his extraordinary eyes at you. They are green, a poignant colour, of grass or leaves of an oaken tree. "That is not an answer to my question, amad."

You smile wider. "You are right, Dain, it is not." You touch the heavy necklace on your neck, the habit of many years. The opals of Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum are the familiar weight on your collarbone and warmth shared with the heat of your body. "I do not. For two reasons. It made me who I am, taught me to protect my autonomy, to not let another person determine my decisions."

He is listening attentively. "And the second reason?" You think back on the day when Aldacar, son of Elendil took your hand and asked you to be his. "Because at that moment it felt right. If you follow your heart and are honest with yourself, even if later it brings you pain, you should not regret that decision."

He lowers his hand and fidgets with the garden pincers. "Does adad know?" "He does." And then he lifts his face and cocks one brow. At that moment he looks so much like his father that you laugh out loud. "Something tells me he did not enjoy finding out." You continue laughing. "No, not particularly." Dain smiles back, a rare wonderful smile. "Thank you for sharing your story with me, amad." "Any time, Dain." You go back to your book, and he returns his attention to the pot and the plants waiting for his care.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

To be capable of embarrassment is the beginning of moral consciousness. Honor grows from qualms.

-John Leonard, critic (1939-2008)


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I wanted to write something about Wren and Thorin before they became a couple. So this story takes place before "Thorin's Morning After", when they are just at the beginning of their path to become Thowren (thank you, ****RagdollPrincess**** for this term:). Their very first meeting is described in "Thorin's Return to Shire" Chapter 8. **

**A/N#2: As I was asked, I'm clarifying, the story about a language class takes place some time in the first two years of Wren residing in Erebor (See "Thorin's Spring" chapter 1-3), they do not share chambers yet, and he calls her "honourable healer", especially in public. They are trying to maintain decorum, but as you can see in the story, not very successfully :)**

**A/N#3: And I couldn't ignore the irony of the quote of the day:)**

**Acuity, **_**noun **_

_**Sharpness; keenness.**_

The second time you see the King Under the Mountain is in Dale, you are hurrying around a corner on your way into the infirmary hall and bump into a wide body, clad into a heavy brigandine. You lift your eyes and see it is a Dwarf. His face is bloodied, one of his shoulders is drooping, a wide wound poorly bandaged with what seems to be a piece of a tunic.

You see other healers rushing around, the Chief Healer yelling orders. It seems there are about twenty Dwarves with injuries of different severity brought into the infirmary. You deceive yourself and pretend that you are not looking around to see if a certain Dwarf is among them.

He is easy to spot right away, as he is taller than most, his regal wide frame standing out among the crowd. He is drenched, water mixed with blood dripping from him, he is supporting another wounded Dwarf. You can see he is bandaged too, the left shoulder held awkwardly.

You rush in and roll up the sleeves of your healer's robe. The Chief Healer sends you to help in the far East hall, and the endless hours of work begin. The Dwarves you attend to tell you that they were returning from North on the River Running and were ambushed by Orcs. Many were wounded by the arrows, two were slayed, and the King is worried that the arrows were poisoned. They had no time to reach Erebor.

This is the first time you are treating Dwarves, and you feel sudden nervousness. You are familiar with the anatomy of Men, you have performed an endless amount of surgeries, as well as been intimate with a Man. Everything you touch at the moment feels different. Their skin is so much hotter, as if scorching the pulps of your fingers, rough, the muscles and joints stronger. At some point you need to remove an arrow head buried in a deltoid muscle, and you know what an excruciating pain you are inflicting. The Dwarf you are jabbing with a surgery blade does not even flinch. It even takes more effort from you to pull the broken piece out, such is the density of the tissue.

None of the Dwarves seems to bear signs of poisoning, but the lacerations are severe. One of them dies on a surgery table, his body pierced by more than twenty arrows. The cut wounds are jagged, deep, the blades of the Orcs, as you can assume by the shape of the lesions, crude but effective. The injuries are also delivered with immense force.

By the end of the day most of the Dwarves are attended to, sleeping after taking the herbal draughts. You are leaning on the wall outside the hall and quietly talk to another healer. He is young, just starting his practice, and he has never seen that much violence in one day. He is especially distraught that such devastation can be executed on such strong, seemingly indestructible bodies.

You feel a presence of a third person near you and lift your eyes. The King is standing a few steps away, his left shoulder bandaged, his upper body clad only in a light shirt, left sleeve cut off. The healer bows and leaves, not without giving you two a short look over his shoulder.

"Honourable healer," he gives you a short bow and winces. "My Lord, please be careful!" Without thinking you reach to him and run your fingers on his shoulder to check the bandage. He lifts his brows. The gesture is slight, everything about him seems perpetually still, immobile, only a very attentive observer can catch the miniscule jerks of lips and brows, the changes in the expression of the bright blue eyes.

The bandage seems intact, and you frown. "You should refrain from bending, my Lord, the cut went across deltopectoral muscles," you seem to catch a glimpse of a smile on his lips. "I would not know which these are, honourable healer." You lift your hand again to show but then realize how inappropriate you behaviour is. You feel heady blush rising on your cheeks. "Forgive me, my Lord, that was improper."

"I did not see anything improper in your behaviour, honorable healer, not this time at least." You are staring. Is he jesting? Surely, you must be misunderstanding. And nonetheless, the corners of his lips are definitely slightly lifted, eyes gleaming with mirth, and he tilts his head to see your reaction. You fidget with the belt of the healer's robe.

Mentally you curse your friend Thea for planting certain thoughts in your head. For months she was interrogating you regarding your first encounter with the King Under the Mountain, and after many hours she finally made you confess the overwhelming, scorching, salacious fire that the look of these cerulean eyes woke to life in your body.

You thought you would never see him again. And here he is, standing in front of you, his eyes warm, and you have to clasp your hands behind your back to hide their trembling. You also have an unfortunate habit of rocking on the heels of your feet when you are anxious. He seems amused by your movements.

There is a disturbing sharpness in his gaze, you feel as if he can somehow penetrate the facade you are keeping and surmise the unease he is causing you. The irises of his remarkable eyes, framed by the surprisingly long, lush lashes, are in stark contrast with thick black brows. He is studying your face and it feels as if someone is moving a candle near your skin, or as feathery touches of warm fingers.

He is silent, and you are tongue-tied. Then you remember his last remark and apologise. He lifts a brow. Oh Maiar, this gesture makes him even more alluring. And then you are mortified. Before this moment you have tried to deny your desires, but he is standing so near that you feel the heat radiating from his body, your hands now familiar with the texture of Dwarven skin, and every fibre of your suddenly sensitive body finds the blazing roughness endlessly magnetic.

You shake your head. You are not lusting after a Dwarf, or any man for that matter. Especially, you are not lusting after a King. Also, men are not toys, no matter what Thea was whispering into your ear. He is a person, and you are ogling him like a piece of meat. You blush even more furiously. And then you remember that it was he who approached you.

"Is there anything I could help you with, my Lord?" He seems to be absorbed in studying your hair and blinks. He shifts his eyes to meet yours and gives you a small smile. "I thought it would be impolite to pretend we have never met, honourable healer. Rules of propriety demanded that I greeted you personally."

Somehow it still feels as if he is mocking you. You press your lips and courtsey. "My Lord," he nods. He turns to leave and then looks back at you. The blue eyes are blazing, and you suddenly feel as if flames flare up under your feet and scorch your whole body. "Lady Wren," he gives you another nod and leaves. You find it hard to breath.

He remembers your name. He remembers your name, and his company will have to stay in the infirmary for the nearest fortnight at least. You feel weak-kneed and lean back on the wall. You blame Thea and her suggestive, libidinous whispering.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was.

-Irish Proverb


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Just a silly nothing! Just thought I'd let you know that Wren is pretty happy with her life in Erebor :)**

**Desuetude, **_**noun **_

_**A state of disuse.**_

The day is rainy, heavy dark clouds enveloping the peak of the Lonely Mountain, and surprising you are in the most of gleeful of moods. The King has gone down into the forges and due to the storm most of the Dwarves feel like staying at home today, splashes of lightning clearly seen in the windows of the Higher Halls, thunder rumbling, heard even inside the Erebor Halls.

You have made your healer's round today and the only errand left is to return the books you have borrowed from the Library. You obviously could have sent a servant but you wish to visit the Librarian, she is approaching the end of her term, her first son to be delivered any day now. She still insists on coming in, her round body moving between the bookshelves with difficulty.

You are walking through an empty hall in the Higher Passages, dark blue sky visible through the narrow lancets. You hear the pitter patter of the rain on the aprons of the windows, echoing through the stone walls of the chamber, semi-lit by small oil lanterns on the tables, the ceiling lost in the shadows high above.

You put the books on the nearest table and bend down to fix a clasp on your shoe. And leaning down you realize that in the silence of the hall the tender sound of rain creates a fascinating rhythm. Bigger drops set out a bass on the steel of the aprons, echoing from the cold stone walls, softer rustle of smaller droplets added as a background, water running through the drain pipes providing a gentle murmur of a melody.

You straighten up and pick up your skirt. You push your body off the floor with one feet, and twirl around on the toes of the other. You body instantly picks up the rhythm, familiar movements fluid and swift, spine stretched and the arm curved in a round movement. And then you shift your weight and leap. The foot ahead easily picks up the movement of your body, endless hours of dancing returning to you, and a laugh bursts out of you. You turn and spin, polished skills immediately governing your limbs, almost unconsciously you draw intricate patterns of steps on the floor, arms flowing, hair escaping your braids, and you pick up speed, twirling faster and faster, until you are out of breath, a wide smile on your face. You finish the dance with an elegant bow.

Then you pick up your books and head to the library. Sometimes Queens love to dance a bit too.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Art is like baby shoes. When you coat them with gold, they can no longer be worn.

-John Updike, writer (1932-2009)


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I'm catching up on the "A Word A Day" drabbles. I'm posting 18 and 19 today, no time yesterday whatsoever :( I'm so preoccupied with my thesis that it is the only indulgence I'm allowing myself. The other stories have to wait. These two drabbles are short but I almost like them :) they seem to be going well together :)**

**Turgid, **_**adjective**_

_**1. Swollen; congested.**_

_**2. Pompous; high-flown.**_

Dain, son of Thorin, having just reached his battle age five years ago, moves with fluidity and caution, his swift lunge and thrust deadly, his father's Elven blade clasped to his back. While his younger brother is all force and roar, Dain's combat is highly influenced by that of his mentor, Elvenking Thranduil. Having spent the last two years in the Mirkwood Dain adopted the low glides and side steps of the Lord of Wooden Realm, which combined with his father's fullbody swirl, blade moving in a loop around each shoulder, with a forceful spin of the wrist, create the terrifying, unstoppable sequence of swording moves.

Othin, the youngest of Thorin's sons, buries his battle axe into the ugly head of yet another Great Spider. "You fight like a girl!" he yells to his brother and guffaws, blue eyes hiding behind black lashes, short and thick. "I consider that a compliment," Dain steps from behind a tree, wiping the blood of another spider from the wide curved blade.

Another spider drops from the top of the tree, its furry body swollen with more repulsive bloodthirsty varmints hiding inside. An Elven arrow pierces its thick skull, and it emits a screeching noise. Dain pushes his brother away from it, and sliding on the wet grass on the bottom of the misty forest, he drops on his back. Moving on inertia, in full control of his lunge, he stretches his arm, Orcrist chopping the hairy jointy legs of the monster. It collapses on the ground, some of the extremities still twitching.

"I'm not a sack of potatoes, you abanbund!" Othin yells and gets up. "You are welcome," Dain's low melodic voice is full of sarcasm. "For what, you brainless dharg? You took away my fun!"

Dain smirks and lifts his face. He is slender for a Dwarf, thick chestnut hair, narrow face, extraordinary green eyes, at the moment glinting with amusement and restrained passion. High above on the branch he sees a lithe silhouette of an Elven maiden. He bows, a low gracious bow, a small smile on his lips. Othin pulls a twig out of his ebony mane. "You and your nith can go on without me. The spiders are boring!" He is grumbling in Khuzdul and walks away.

Dain smiles and stretches his arms up. A svelte body slides in his hands and a pair of elegant arms slides around his neck. "Morning, kurdu," he looks into the blue eyes of Meltoriel, her pink lips an irresistible magnet. He leans in, and his thick long lashes flutter. "Morning, aur," the Silvan Elf slides her delicate fingers into his strands, and for a while they are quiet and very, very busy.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

It's best to give while your hand is still warm.

-Philip Roth, novelist (b. 1933)


	19. Chapter 19

**Sciolism, **_**noun **_

_**Pretentious display of superficial knowledge.**_

You both are lying on a thick cover, spread on the grass, your head on his chest, right leg wrapped around his body, your hand playing with the string on his tunic. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, lazily twirling a strand of your hair.

You peek at his face, the blue eyes are closed, brow smooth, corners of his lips curled up. If not for the slight caresses of his fingers you would assume he is asleep. Bugs and bees are whizzing by, tall spindly grasses hardly moving in the hot July air, full of the fragrance of flowers and sun warmed pines around you.

You slide your palm on the hot skin under the swan-necked collar, and one black brow twitches. You claw the chest a bit, and you see the delectable curved lips open slightly. "Did you come here often when you were a child, my King?" He opens his eyes. "Hardly ever, my honourable healer. The woods are no place for children."

You hum and take your hand out of the opening of his tunic. He looks at you sideways, obviously disapproving of the halt in your attentions. You place it back on his torso and slide lower on the hard muscles of his abdomen. The blue eyes are mischievous, and he moves his large palm from your shoulder onto your waist. His fingers twitch but do not proceed lower.

"What is so dangerous in these forests, my Lord? They seem rather peaceful to me." He gently takes a handful of your dress, and then the deft fingers start moving, pulling and bunching the skirt. You retaliate by relocating your palm on his silver buckle. Clank.

"There are dangerous beasts in these woods, honourable healer," his low murmur seems slightly raspy. "One can get caught and ravished before one can squeak." The scorching palm slides on the suddenly naked skin of your hip. "Oh Maiar, that is a horrible fate to befall an unsuspecting victim," your voice hardly sounds horrified. You also might be strategically rubbing your knee below the unclasped silver buckle. He suddenly moves from under you and rolls over, pressing you into the cover. You indeed squeak from surprise and delight. His smirk is positively feral. You lick your lips and widen your eyes in a feigned terror. "Oh, I see now, my Lord. There is indeed a horrible beast in these woods." He emits a rather convincing growl and presses his mouth on yours.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Life cannot be classified in terms of a simple neurological ladder, with human beings at the top; it is more accurate to talk of different forms of intelligence, each with its strengths and weaknesses. This point was well demonstrated in the minutes before last December's tsunami, when tourists grabbed their digital cameras and ran after the ebbing surf, and all the 'dumb' animals made for the hills.

-B.R. Myers, author (b. 1963)


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Still toiling on my thesis here. So only AWADs these days. I took the obligation upon myself, a word a day, and I will rise to the challenge :) but the rest of my stories have to wait :(**

**I know you want to know what happens with Wrennie and Dr. T, and I have three chapters in my head, but I just have to finish the cursed conclusion section! Bear with me:( "Heal All Wounds" will be worth it when I resurface! I have such a plot twist planned with Phil and Dr. Sexy that you will be giddy and dizzy! :)**

**A/N#2: Just a reminder that I'm updating "Thorin's Timeline" if some major event gets disclosed in Thowren's story (the term by RagdollPrincess still cracks me up every time:). If you are confused in the little Oakenshields, refer to the timeline.**

**Edacity, **_**noun **_

_**Greediness; good appetite.**_

Your youngest son Othin, fourth child of Thorin Oakenshield is conceived at a great extend thanks to elderberry jam.

You are visiting the Woodland Realm, and to say that the atmosphere is tense would be a dire understatement. While previously your King seemed to have built if not friendly but at least easeful relationships with the Elvenking Thranduil, the events surrounding your kidnapping during the early months of expecting your third child, Dain, the King of Silvan Elves saving you from your assailants and your consequent disunity with your beloved, turns this visit into an exercise in behaving decorously for all three of you.

Twenty months passed since King Thranduil brought you into his Halls, still recovering from the shock of being dragged into the ruins of the ancient city of Framsburg, occupied by a band of motley criminals from all over Middle Earth, and being nearly assaulted and killed by their leader. You were emotional, your third pregnancy due to Dain's own magic unexpectedly hindering your gift, leaving you without your usual ability to communicate with your unborn child, worried that the babe in your womb had suffered from the torment you went through. You were crying in the Elvenking's arms, his long cold fingers brushing through your hair, nightmares not allowing you a single uninterrupted night. Upon his hasty frantic arrival, your King rushed into your guest chambers only to find you in a gauzy nightdress, your hair splayed on your shoulders, King Thranduil's lips pressed to your temple.

Months went by, you stayed in Mirkwood, heartbroken and separated from your older children, the King not aware that he was to become a father for the third time. When the misunderstanding was eventually cleared and Dain was born, the last thing your King wished to do was to visit the shadowy passages of Mirkwood Halls in any observable future. And now you two with eight months old Dain are arriving to the house of the Elvenking.

You are greeted by Legolas, the prince of Mirkwood, and he presses your fingers with additional warmth, you two having developed a keen friendship over the years after the alliance of the two Kingdoms was formed and especially during the months you were staying in his father's house. The King Under the Mountain hardly acknowledges his presence with a nod. You are placed into large guest chambers and you stay in the room, playing with Dain, giving him a bath and putting him to sleep, while your King leaves for a meeting with the Elvenking.

You are troubled. You have nothing to be ashamed of, and if anything the last months the King was as attentive and affectionate as the loving husband he always is, still repentant over his lack of trust towards you and the distress he subjected you to. Nonetheless, you feel anxious.

They have a lot to discuss, new threat rising in Dol-Guldur, more and more Easterlings seen on the borders of the Great Greenwood. Your King is a skillful and wise politician to understand that his personal struggles are of no importance at the moment. On the other hand, years and experience still sometimes seem to have failed to maturate his temper. The meeting can end in a new agreement in these dark times, or with a sword fight around King Thranduil's throne accompanied by swearing in Khuzdul and the Elvenking gracefully attempting to kick the King Under the Mountain. At least thusly was how it ended the time before last they saw each other.

The door opens slowly, and the Kind comes in. You are reposing on the large bed and he slides to lie down over the covers. He is also hiding something behind his back. "Is Dain asleep?" You look at him in the dim light of the bedchambers. His face is surprisingly gleeful and relaxed. "Yes, my Lord. How was the meeting?" "Tedious and predictable. As my friend Master Baggins always says, it's unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will answer both yes and no."

You cup his face and look at his face more attentively. There is smile hiding in his lips and you wonder what it is about. "The scouts arrived from Erebor while I was at the meeting, my Queen." You stroke the black beard with your thumb and hum to show you are listening. And then he moves his hand from behind his back and shows you a small jar.

The first two of your pregnancies were easy, no mood changes or strange cravings, healthy appetite, only your heightened hunger for your King's company marking the time, but since your desire for him is insatiable most of the time, you consider your pregnancies rather uneventful happenings. The third one, turbulent and full of uncertainty left you thin and exhausted. But then, since his first months of life Dain showed himself as a gift of a child. He sleeps through the night, entertains himself for hours, though alarmingly with creating golden globes and levitating them over his cot. He has healthy appetite and gives you enough time to tend to yourself. You are fully recovered, your weight back, some new roundness and softness on your curves, and there is only one thing that seems out of the ordinary.

Still nursing him, you are subjected to the weirdest of cravings. In the middle of the day you might want fire roasted fish, or suddenly mushrooms, potatoes with butter and dill, a scone, fresh garlic or chestnuts. Mostly, almost every day, at least once a day, usually at bedtime, to the point of crying and biting your fingers, it is for elderberry jam.

The small jar in the King's hand is full of the dark, luscious sweetness. You can see the black berries soaked in the thick, velvet syrup, and you squeal. The King smiles and you grab the jar from his hands. He is obviously expecting you to hastily open it and sink your finger in it. It has happened before, to his endless amusement. Somehow licking it from the tip of your finger seems the most logical way to proceed. After a few drops you are usually calm enough to actually put some on your toast.

You blindly shove the jar on a table near the bed and throw yourself at him. You press your lips at his, and he emits a surprised but delighted "oomph". He realizes quite quickly that your intentions go beyond just a kiss, your hands unclasping his belt with a practiced deftness, and he chuckles in surprise at your ardour. His overcoat and waistcoat are shed in seconds, his trousers on the floor, his tunic following in an instant. You jerk your nightdress off and straddle him. His eyes are wide, and you sink on his length.

He growls and the large palms squeeze your buttocks. Your hips start moving, loud moans escaping your lips, your hands grabbing your own hair, then jumping onto your breasts. He adds his palms, and you intertwine your fingers with his. You are moving in forceful fast lunges, his tip hitting your cervix, your pelvis plunging down with fervour, and you climax together, your cries joined and fused like your bodies. You fall on his chest, and he suddenly starts laughing. The low rumble is quaking his whole body, and you moan in reproach. "You are shaking me, my Lord." It only makes him go louder and more gleefully.

"I am going to order a barrell of this substance to be towed after our company at all times." You chuckle, "I think once I am done nursing it will not be required." His palms are stroking your back. "Forgive me, my Lord, I am being impolite", you place an open mouthed kiss on his chest, "Thank you for your thoughtfulness." You do not want to seem unappreciative of his gesture. "I think you have expressed your gratitude quite adequately, my lady."

Sixteen months later Othin is born, his dark curls of the same colour as the elderberry jam that brought the possibility of him into this world.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.

-Spanish proverb


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: I am still working on my thesis, so this is all I had time for, just a quickie to let out some steam. All puns in the previous sentence are intended, and I am very ashamed of them :P**

**A/N#2: It is as M as it gets :) Beware!**

**Ignominy, **_**noun **_

_**1. Public disgrace. **_

_**2. Disgraceful quality or conduct.**_

The King is walking through the Northern Lower passage, when your arm snakes from behind a tapestry covering an alcove in a wall, and you grab his fur adorned collar. You jerk him behind the tapestry and press both hands into his chest. His back slams into the wall, and he opens his mouth to question your actions. You do not let him speak, covering his mouth with yours, and then you press your knee up between his legs pointedly. He emits a choked sound and puts his hands on your shoulders.

You know you have a few seconds to convince him to stay in the alcove before he gently pushes you away. At the moment he is concerned with decorum and still conscious of the the fact that it is a rather frequented passage, but you know that after a certain amount of his blood travels downwards, such thoughts will abandon his mind completely. You just need to present your arguments faster. You replace your knee with your right hand, sliding your palm up and down, with just the right amount of pressure of your fingers, and he moans into your mouth.

You run your other hand around his neck and push your fingers in the thick hair at his nape. You are sucking on his bottom lip, and you know you have successfully overcome any traces of his half hearted resistance. You slide your lips on his jaw and your teeth scrape the coarse black beard. He groans through clenched teeth. His hand is at the back of your neck now, he is pulling you closer, the other palm cups your breast. You are certain he can feel the pebbled peak through the velvet of your dress.

Your hand continues stroking the stone hard erection, you bite his neck, and he drops his head back. You slightly shift and move your other hand from his neck onto his waist. It unclasps his silver buckle, and the sound of belt hitting the floor makes him jerk. You squeeze his member and whatever thought sparked in his brain dies. Strings on the breeches quickly untangled, you open up his fly, your teeth on the lobe of his sensitive ear. You slide your hand down the opening in his trousers, encircle his cock with your fingers, and he hisses.

You drop on your knees and before he can notice the change in your position you close your lips on his member. His whole body jolts. You lift your eyes and enjoy the view of clenched fists and muscles contracted into knots on his jaw. You make a few slow forceful moves, lips locked and throat clenching around his tip, and then pick up the speed, each dive deep enough for his head to hit the back of your throat. He is breathing very heavily.

You are bobbing your head and then hear voices of a few Dwarves passing by. The tapestry slightly waves from the air rushing through the passage from an open door. He grabs a handful of your hair, probably to halt you. The rhythm of your mouth's movement on him completely unaffected, you cup his testicles and gently massage them with your fingers. The hand falls from your hair and he silently slams his fist into the wall he is leaning on. You smile and then hollow your cheeks.

Both of his large palms fly to the back of your head and he suddenly presses your head into him. Most likely he will later apologise for that, but since he is hardly conscious to understand what he is doing, you will graciously forgive him. His cum hits the back of your esophagus and you caress him with your throat through his release. His member is jerking in your mouth, his whole body convulsing. He is taking huge gulps of air with his open mouth.

You let him go and decorously wipe your lips. Then you get up, smooth your dress and slip back into the passage from behind the curtain. You pick up a glass of wine you wisely put on a table near the alcove and quickly empty it in a few gulps. A Dwarf from the Royal Council is approaching you, he stops and and gives you a low bow. "My Queen," you nod in return. "Will we be seeing you in the council today, my Queen?" "Yes, Master Boin," you courtly smile, "but the King might be a bit tardy."

You start walking with him towards the Council Hall. "How is your youngest faring, Master Boin?" His second offspring was born the same month as your fourth son, Othin. "Quite well, my Queen, how is the youngest prince?" "A handful as all of them, my Lord." He chuckles and you two continue your pleasant conversation and head through the passages.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

And the fox said to the little prince: men have forgotten this truth, but you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.

-Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author and aviator (1900-1944)


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I literally had ten minutes between errands to write it today. Just a little something, following up "Thorin's Morning After". But I updated "Blind Carnival"! The ideas for it just wouldn't leave me alone and I allocated an hour especially for JT and trashy novel writing Wren today :)**

**Sang-froid, **_**noun **_

_**Calmness, especially under stress.**_

It is your first morning in Erebor, and you open your eyes. Sunlight is playing on your pillows, scattered and coloured by the stained glass. You lift your hand above your face and move your palm in the streams of sunshine. Facets of the window place various shapes of blue, green and red on your skin, and you follow the light with your eyes. You turn your head and look at the sleeping face of man beside you.

The King Under the Mountain spent the night in your new chambers, located in the same passage as his, though you suspect that he had to move his to retain the vicinity to yours. The rooms that were chosen for your sleeping chambers and healer's study are in the Higher Halls of Erebor, the King being completely correct in assuming that you would need sun and open sky outside your window. You would not survive in the cold dark Lower Halls.

You have arrived to Erebor late in the evening and after a hasty dinner the King showed you the chambers prepared for you. The hours that followed mostly consisted of getting acquainted with the bed, and then the floor, and then the desk in your new study, and then a window sill, and then the window sill again. The height happened to be rather opportune.

This is your first day in your new home, and you are surprised to feel serenity and content. There are so many things that should worry you, but all you can feel is an undiluted happiness. You turn on your side and look at the face of the majestic Dwarf in your bed.

You allow yourself silly cloying gazing, your eyes following the straight long nose, feathery black lashes, sensual curve of the lips. You slip your hand to his face and gently trace the upper lip with the tip of your finger. The mouth twitches, and brows draw together. You remember that the King Under the Mountain is a morning grouch, but then the blue eyes fly open and a wide white-toothed smile adorns his face. "Morning, my heart," the voice is velvet and syrup, and you feel that coming to Erebor might have been the best decision you have made in your entire life.

Perhaps, only surpassed by the decision of taking the King Under the Mountain by the hand and leading him upstairs into your room in the inn in Dale three moons ago.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

There are two kinds of light - the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures. -James Thurber, writer and cartoonist (1894-1961)


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: This week's prompts from "A Word A Day"are themed around card games. It is going to be delicious! :)**

**A/N#2: As some might protest against the presence of chess in Middle Earth, I did a bit of research. Gandalf and Pippin mention them in LoTR, or at least a game similar to them. Thus, this story :) Also, I came up with whatever rules I needed for plot purposes, and I'm not even sorry :) **

**I'm a chess enthusiast myself (cue all the chess terms/innuendos :D), and I'm thinking there will be more of "games" between these two in my future stories :) **

**Euchre**

_**verb tr.: To cheat, trick, or outwit.**_

_**noun: A card game for two to four players usually played with the 32 highest cards in the pack.**_

The King is frowning. Brows drawn together, lips pressed sternly, he is stroking his black beard. The look is very flattering, and you lick your lips. The other large palm is on the table, and he is tapping his middle and index fingers on the polished wood of the table.

You let one of your shoes slide off the heel of your foot and swing it on your toes. "Uncle, is this piece not vulnerable?" Fili points at one of your black pieces. He has surprising amount of patience for sitting and watching you two play, considering the restless, abundant energy usually bubbling in him. Perhaps he shares the King's conviction that the game teaches strategy and cunning.

"The sheer fact that the Queen left it in such position should tell you that it has to be avoided for as long as possible." You smirk. You feel Fili's eyes on you and turn to him. He is smiling, a warm friendly smile with a substantial amount of admiration mixed in. You win about a half of the games with the King. You lift a brow cheekily, and Fili chuckles.

The King lifts his hand and it halts over one of his white pieces. He screws his eyes. The top bulb of the sand clock is almost empty, he has little time to make his move. He quickly shifts his hand and moves another piece. You chuckle. He inverts the clock and lifts his bright eyes at you. He is smirking lopsidedly. This smug grin is so distinctively characteristic to him that you feel fluttering in your chest. Not a reason enough not to crash his attack though.

You make the next move without much consideration and invert the clock. The small smile previously twitching the King's lips is gone. The hand on the table clenches into a fist. "That was unexpected..." Fili's voice is surprised. "Why that piece, uncle?" "Because I seem to be paying little attention today, Fili," the King's voice is low and sullen, "Your Queen has cornered me". You laugh openly. "No need for brooding, my Lord, you still have a slight chance to avert your fall." You silently lower the shoe on the floor.

"I do not see how, my Queen," he sounds rather dour. You reach and slide your toes under the cuff of his trousers. Since you are in your private sitting room, he is barefoot. You deftly stroke him and then rub your ankle to his. The fist on the table relaxes, and he puts an open palm down.

"Actually," Fili gets up and leans to his ear. He is whispering something in the King's ear while you are pushing your toes further up his pant. The King's eyes are burning, scorching gaze fixed on you, and you swiftly add the second foot. You are sitting decorously, your hands on the table, smiling blissfully into his eyes.

Fili is obviously suggesting some daring strategy. You squeeze the King's ankle with the arches of your feet and pointedly move them up and down his leg in a suggestive imitation of a different caress. You can see his jaw clench and his Adam's apple bobs.

He blinks. "Pardon, Fili, can you repeat the last part?" You lick your lips and pick up a chain going down from the central piece of your necklace, Nyrnala. You make sure Fili is preoccupied with whatever he is whispering into the King's ear, and you hold the chain between your fingers, swinging the drop shaped opal hanging from it from side to side. When you see that the King's eyes are following the stone, you let it go and it slides into the cleft between your breasts in the low cut of the dress.

"Your time is up, my Lord," you point at the sand clock with your eyes. Fili looks at the King questioningly, and the latter nods. Fili moves a piece and smiles smugly. He inverts the clock and lifts a brow.

You lower your eye on the board and tap the tips of your fingers on your lips. You pick up a piece that has already been removed from the game and twirl it in your other hand. Then you wrap your fingers around it and rub the rounded tip with your thumb. Undoubtedly, it brings back some memories, considering that the King shifts on his seat and clears his throat. You speed up your circular movements of the thumb and then bring the piece to your lips, in feigned thoughtfulness. You brush it on your bottom lips and then as if absent-mindedly you nip on it.

The King slams the palms onto the table. "I think the game is over. I am exhausted," his voice is gruff. "But Uncle, we were possibly winning!" Fili jumps on his feet. "The game is over," the King's tone is decisive. "And soon enough, nephew, you will understand that there is no winning in a game against a woman."

He pushes Fili out of the room and hastily closes the door behind him. You are still sitting at the same table seemingly pondering the pieces on the board. He strides to you and picks you up, throwing your over his shoulder. You squeal and dangle your feet. "Time for the Endgame, my Queen."

He throws you on the bed and jerks off his tunic. You guffaw and roam his delectable chest with your eyes. "Has my King Hunt been successful, my Lord?" He pushes his trousers down, and you lick your lips. Evidently, it was. He steps out of the breeches on the floor and grabs your ankles. He pulls you towards him, to the edge of the bed, spreading your legs at the same time, and you are laughing salaciously. He falls on his knees in front of the bed and grabs the hem of your dress. You lift your arms in an obvious invitation. He pushes the dress up, you momentarily lift your bum off the bed, shimmy your shoulders when he is moving the bodice up, and the dress is on the floor. The undertunic and your drawers follow swiftly.

He slides his palms under your buttocks, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He growls and pushes into you. "Your Mating Net has been especially efficient today, my Queen," he gnarls, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He is thrusting forcefully, and you moan loudly. "I have to say," speaking is problematic, but you are enjoying the endless lecherous possibilities of the terminology too much to stop, "I am enjoying my Steel King today. Oh!" His tip hits your farthest wall especially hard, and you squeeze his waist harder. "Oh yes, my King, that's the Key Square! Right there!"

Your climax is violent, and you scream, still holding to his waist with your thighs. Your back arches, you are bending backwards, your shoulder blades falling on the sheets. He growls and pushes into your deeper. A few thrusts, and he is climaxing, swearing in Khuzdul unusually loudly.

His hot upper body falls on yours, and he is still, his breathing laboured and heavy. You are stroking his nape and shoulders in feather like caresses. He chuckles. "I would say Checkmate, my Queen, but that would be too banal." You chuckle in return. "Knowing you, my Lord, it is just an adjournment."*

*Adjournment = The postponement of an unfinished game. The player "on the move" seals his/her next move in an envelope only to be opened when the game resumes.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.

-Jean-Paul Sartre, writer and philosopher (1905-1980)


	24. Chapter 24

**Vole**

_**noun:**_

_**1. Any of various rodents of the genus Microtus and related genera.**_

_**2. The winning of all the tricks in some card games.**_

_**verb intr.:**_

_**3. To risk everything in the hope of great rewards. Typically used in the phrase "go the vole".**_

_**4. To try every possibility.**_

You twirl your sword in your hand and give your opponent an unpleasant smile. "Look at that, Ned, the birdy has a claw," the crook is laughing. His drunk mate is unsheathing his own blade and it gets stuck in the scabbard. "And a fine one, would you just look at that! Is that a Dwarven sword, lassy? Where did you get it?" He is laughing throatily.

There are three of them. The talkative, the drunk and the dangerous one. The third one who is silently standing a bit to the side is the one you should pay most attention to. He seems more sober and calmer than the other two. If these two are probably looking for filthy carnal pleasures, he has paid attention. There are heavy opal earrings in your lobes, and the fabric of your cloak is very expensive. You are also wielding a Dwarven sword worthy of a King. In actuality, it is.

The first one you can take out rather easily, he is paying too much attention to your cleavage. You have a rather revealing dress under your cloak and a patch of naked skin can be seen in the opening. The second one might fall down on his own. The third one, though, seems to hold his blade with some degree of dextrosity. You move slightly to the right, so he is in your sight. He shifts into your blind spot. That is worrisome.

"What is a bird like you doing in Dale, lassy? Are you looking for a man to warm you up?" The second one chuckles. "That's a Dwarven cloak on her, Todd, she is not looking for your tiny pecker!" "Hey, Ned, shut your gob! They are short, do you think they have much to offer?!" He is getting angry. Probably the aforementioned pecker is indeed unimpressive.

You take a few tentative steps to the left. If you lunge right now, you can slide by the first one, the second one will not even have time to notice probably. The third one will have to be knocked out by the hilt to the head. You evaluate his height. An elbow to the solar plexus seems like a better idea.

The first two are still musing regarding Dwarven deficiency between the sheets, when a fourth figure steps in the dim shadows of the back alley. The height and the silhouette are familiar, and you are flooded with relief. You lower your sword and chuckle.

"You had me waiting, my Lord." "The most unfortunate happenstances, my lady, I apologise profoundly," the velvet rumble of the King Under the Mountain is caressing your hearing. He steps ahead, and you can see that he is covered in mud head to toe. He is still majestic and delectable, even with mire smeared over the cloak and even the beard that you can see under the rim of the hood. You chuckle again. The crooks look at him in confusion and apprehension. "Have you fallen in a puddle, my Lord?" "A ditch," he chuckles. "The cursed pony is as stubborn as..." He is searching for a word. "As a Dwarf?" He chuckles again. "Indeed, my Queen."

The crooks are finally back to their senses, and they start exchanging glances. You do not blame then for hesitation, even looking like a freshly dug out spud he is still endlessly intimidating. He kept his hood on, half of his face concealed, but the scabbard is quite evident under the fabric of the cloak. You think that they are mostly reacting to the unwavering masculine confidence in the strut and posture, and rather salacious thoughts make you lick your lips.

The silent discussion is over, and they jump at him. At the very last moment the hood flies off his face, and you see a slightly exasperated expression. The first meets a crushing punch in his face, he has an unfortunate short build, you wince from a crunch of the bone under the procerus, the second gets a heavy kick and slides on the ground groaning. The King catches the wrist of the third one, just above the fist holding the sword, pulls him, making him continue the movement by the initial trajectory and slams him into the wall.

The crook is sliding down the wall, and the King is left with a cheap sword in his hand. He throws it on the ground with disdainful disgust on his face. Then he takes off his glove and stretches his hand to you. You give him your fingers and step closer.

"Remind me, my Queen, why are we sneaking out of our ample home in Erebor, leaving the opulence of our sleeping chambers, luscious sheets and a hot bath behind, to say nothing of that new settee that proved its worth last night, for the sake of the questionable comfort of an inn in Dale?" You pull out a handkerchief and wipe his face. You are mostly concerned with the lower half.

"We are keeping the flames of marital passion ablaze, my Lord," he chuckles, "Adventure, chase, clandestine meeting of lovers in a half lit room in an inn..." He pulls you closer. "Is it not an arousing perspective, my Lord? They say the forbidden pleasures of an illicit affair are quite a treat." You are murmuring, and he greedily presses his lips to yours. After a few seconds he rasps, "I wouldn't know, my Queen, I have never had any."

"Well, is it not a fortunate coincidence, my Lord? Neither have I! And how lovely it all played out today. You even had a chance to save a damsel in distress from loathsome villains." One of the filchers groans on the ground. "These ones?" The King makes a scoffing noise. "My Queen could have managed them with a spoon for a weapon."

"Thorin," you sound reproachful, "You are ruining the game." "Oh, right, forgive me, my heart," he gives you a surprisingly mischievous smile and dunks you backwards in his arms. He smirks lopsidedly and lifts his brow suggestively. "What is my reward for saving you from the fate worse than death, fair maiden?" You giggle. "I have nothing to pay you with, my saviour." The breathiness in your voice is not even feigned.

"Gold does not interest me," he is positively purring. "Your honour, on the other hand..." You press your palms to your chest. "Oh, no! I have been saving myself for my dashing and enticing husband." He is quite obviously enjoying this. "He might only have crumbs to pick up once I am done with you, fair maiden." You theatrically sag in his arms. He picks you up and carries out of the back lane.

In the street he has to put you down, a few passers by giving you two baffled looks. You laugh and loop your arm through his. You both pull up the hoods, you are easy to recognize. He leads you to a lantern lit entrance to an inn. You recognize the sign and laugh. "Are we visiting the places of former glory, my Lord?" He chuckles, "At least we know the sheets in this one are nice. And the beds are dependable." "We will have to keep our faces hidden and come up with fictitious names, my Lord." "You are the one who wanted a clandestine affair, my lady." "An illusion of one, my Lord. I am rather contented in my boring, uneventful marriage." You kiss his cheek to show that you are jesting. He chuckles, "If two children with such small age difference are any indication, my lady, you definitely are." You turn and press your body to his. "There is only one Dwarf I would step into a liaison with. Fortunately, I do not need to."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry. ... With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood.

-Gabriel García Márquez, novelist, journalist, Nobel laureate (b. 1927)


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Since all I have been thinking about these days is the drama with Thranduil, I got very emotional and wrote this. I hope you like it *shy shuffling of feet***

**House of cards, **_**noun **_

_**Something insecure or insubstantial that is subject to imminent collapse.**_

You wake up with a jerk, your heart is beating painfully in your throat, you are taking huge gulps of air. You press your hand to your forehead and reach for the other side of the bed to touch the warm shoulder of your husband. "Thorin…" Your hand hits an empty pillow, and then it all comes back to you.

There can not be anyone in your bed. You are Wren, a simple healer in Dale, you are not married, and most of all there cannot be a Dwarf sleeping in your bed. Dwarves do not bed women of Men. Especially if they are Kings. Especially after seeing them once in their life. And even more so, they do not marry them and do not father their three sons and a daughter.

You pull at your hair. What kind of a convoluted absurd dream was that? You get up and wobble to the table. You drink a mug of water and rub your face. You do not feel any desire to sleep and sit at the table.

The dream felt so real. Stone walls of a hall lit by candles, the children, three boys and a girl, the youngest still a babe, the Kings Under the Mountain… Your hand flies to your throat. There, months ago there was a cut from his blade, an accidental wound he so profoundly apologised for later, his blue eyes regretful, brows drawn together. All you could feel at that moment is the scorching fire of desire, his gaze on your throat making you wish his lips would follow.

In your dream he was pressing you into his body, mouth pressed to the pulse on your neck, you were sitting on his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. All the little details, more silver in his hair, the heavy Dwarven dress on you, the children playing on the floor, the youngest in his older brother's arms, all of it so real, so tangible...

You drop your head on the table. The previous dreams were easier, simpler, hot and indecent. There were not so many, and you congratulated yourself on being reasonable. You keep on telling yourself that it is strange to think about a Dwarf that way. Your imagination was rather inventive, feverish images of entangled bodies and wide heavy frame, hot length thrusting into you. Perhaps they do not even bed women that way. Perhaps it somehow transpires differently for them. Do they even find women of other races attractive?

You crawl under your blanket again and press your face into the pillow. You remember him as he was when you ran into him in the passages of Erebor. You think of the stern, almost angry line of his lips, the cold eyes, the haughty demeanour. You spent half an hour in his company, and you tell yourself to return from the clouds your head is in since then. You will probably never see him again. And especially you will never see the look of ardent burning love in his eyes that your torturous dream presented you with. There will be no passion, no tenderness, no hot calloused hands holding yours, there will be no Thror, Unna, Dain or Othin…

You eyes fly open, and you are staring into the darkness of your room. How mad does one need to be to come up with names for imaginary children with a man as unattainable as Thorin Oakenshield, the King of Erebor, a Dwarf and a cantankerous grouch who did not probably even listen when you told him your name and forgot your face the minute he bid you goodbye?

You turn on the other side and try to ignore a small voice in your head. But the voice persists whispering, and you press your hands to your ears. Because you did not come up with the names, you just knew them in your dream, just as you knew thousands and thousands of other wonderful, amazing, heartbreaking things about that life that you will never have. The way his hair falls and curtains you from the world when he presses your body into the sheets, the way it feels when his son stirs under your heart for the first time, the weight of his newborn babe in your hands, the feeling of power and pride you feel when the heavy iron crown of Erebor lies on your head, the smiles, the kisses, the laughter...

You groan and bite into the pillow. It will never happen, it will never come. You feel tears running down your cheeks, and you berate yourself for stupidity. You tell yourself you are not to fall in love with a man after seeing him once and you are not to think about this dream again.

**XXX**

You wake up gasping for air, frantic pulse painful on your throat, your ears ringing. You are sitting in your bed, your fists clenches on the collar of your nightdress. "Thorin…" You stretch your hand, and it meets scorching skin. "What is it?" His voice is gruff and peevish. You turn your head and stare at the Dwarf on the other side of your bed, already in the deep slumber again.

And then it all comes back to you. All those years ago, that night in the inn in Dale your dream was true. Everything you saw in it happened last night. The children were playing in the Dining Hall, Thror having found some of his old toys brought them to his siblings. Unna was showing Dain how to wind up a little figurine of a miner, while you were bobbing Othin on your knee. The King was pretending to read a book. Then you gave Othin to Thror and suddenly slid on the King's lap. He laughed, open hearty laugh, white teeth gleaming, one arm sliding around you, another picked up your hand. He pressed your knuckles to his lips, and you were looking into his mirthful loving eyes.

How could you have forgotten that dream? You even got the names right that night. You remember the tears and the despair that came after, your heart aching for him. You slide closer to the King and gently touch his shoulder. "Thorin..." "Yes, yes, of course..." He does not wake up but wraps a massive arm around you and pulls you closer. You bury your nose into his skin and breathe in the earthy familiar smell of his skin. You close your eyes and will your heart to calm down.

"What is it, kurdu?" His voice is surprisingly clear, and you lift your face. His eyes are open, and he is looking at you attentively. He is such a beautiful man and you suddenly cannot remember how to breathe. "I had a strange dream." "One of your prophetic ones?" He frowns. "No, nothing of the kind, it was almost a memory…" He smiles slightly. "Of what?" "Dale, when we just met, but before you got wounded in an Orc ambush on River Running. Just a silly memory..." He pulls you even closer and nuzzles your hair. "Who could have known then where we were to end up..." "Indeed," you smile into his skin, "Who could have known..."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Mistakes are part of the dues that one pays for a full life.

-Sophia Loren, actress (b. 1934)


	26. Chapter 26

**Spoof**

_**noun:**_

_**1. A light, good-humored imitation; parody.**_

_**2. A hoax or a prank.**_

_**verb tr.:**_

_**1. To satirize gently.**_

_**2. To fool using a hoax or a prank.**_

You gently touch the tip with the pulp of your finger, and it twitches. You chuckle. He lifts a brow. "It is not a toy, my lady." You give him a toothy grin. "It is exactly what it is, my Lord." You run the finger down the length and laugh at the delightful jerk, all length definitely reacting to your attentions. You gently blow, and he growls. "Do not forget, my Lord, today is my day. Today I decide what to do." "And your decision is to do nothing and just to stare at it, my Queen?" He sounds peevish and drops his head back into pillows. "I _am _doing something, I am proving a theory." "Do I want to know?" You lick the tip of your finger and run it up and down. Then you slightly push it on one side. Naturally, it bounces back in the initial position. "What is the theory, my lady?" "I will tell you once it is proven, but partially it has to do with an assumption that it is as cantankerous and impatient as the Dwarf it is attached to." He cannot help it, he chuckles. "It is not cantankerous, it is very pleasant to have dealings with." "Have you ever tried to, my Lord?" You feign indignation. "Quite a lot until I met you, my lady. Possibly on everyday basis." "That is different, my Lord. You did not have to handle its complete inability to yield." "Is it not a virtue for such thing?" He cocks a brow again. "Not after a few hours, my Lord. At some point it just becomes hazardous." You caress it with the tips of your fingers for a little bit more, and it swells even more. With a certain amount of blood reaching it, it acquires a peculiar curve. As if slightly nodding towards the King's left shoulder. You tilt your head to match the angle. "That is enough," he grabs you under your arms and pulls you on top of him. His large palm lies on your buttock and he pointedly pushes your hips in the direction of the topic of discussion. You guffaw. "See, I stand correct. Cantankerous and impatient. And as I initially assumed, my King did not last ten minutes without imposing his will." "Live with it," he catches your mouth, and you murmur lowering your hips on its length, "Oh, I am intending to."

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

A pedestal is as much a prison as any small space.

-Gloria Steinem, activist, editor (b. 1934)


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: I decided to provide the chapters in this story with a short explanation when and where it is happening, since I get asked "Are they already married in this story?" or "How many children do they have at this stage?" :) Which I love, don't get me wrong, since it shows that people are interested. Not all the chapters from here are mentioned in "Thorin's Timeline" and some of them honestly can happen at anytime during their romance :)**

**Trump card, **_**noun**_

_**1. In card games, a suit chosen to rank above the others. **_

_**2. Something that gives an overriding, decisive advantage.**_

_On the way from the Shire to Erebor for the wedding:_

You hear Bilbo screaming and calling your name. Your feet slip, and you are trying to grasp a wet root, but your fingers slide off the coarse bark, your hands too small to encircle the rhizome. You are tumbling down, from the shoulder of the road into a small stream running below the hill, on which the path you were travelling is winding. You hear the King's terrified voice, "Zundushinh!"

You get up on your feet, your palms and knees bleeding, cut on the sharp stones at the bottom of the brook, and look around. You cannot seem to find your sword, although you remember clasping it in your hand, when you had to dismount the pony when the attack started. Screams and warg growls are heard above you, and you lift your head.

You are at least three feet below the road and can hardly see what is going on there, sidehill cut steep, bushes and trees partially obstructing the view. You catch a glimpse of Dwalin swinging his axe, then you hear what you think is Gloin screaming. You step back, deeper into water, searching for the sword, and then you hear a low growl behind. You swirl and stare into the eyes of a large warg. The muzzle is distorted in a snarl, long teeth bared, salivating, and you take a step back. The fur on the nape is bunching, and you put your hand on the hilt of a dagger on your belt.

You hear Bilbo shouting above, "She fell down! There is a warg there!" He sounds panicked, and three things happen at the same time. You hear the bushes by the road crashing, a large body slamming through them. You momentarily screw your eyes there, and you see the King pushing through the shrubs on the side of the hill, leaping ahead, throwing all his weight down towards you.

Almost immediately the warg leaps ahead, for you its movement is more felt than seen. You lift your arms in an absurd attempt to shield itself. And the third event in this conjunction happens. A flash of golden light bursts between your splayed hands and the beast howls, its body violently thrown back, its spine slammed into the nearest tree.

Unfortunately the wave also hits the King, and he is on the ground, blood gushing from the wound on his temple, where his head met with a boulder in the hillside. He growls and tries to get up. He sways and pushes his weight from Orcrist that he jams into the ground, trying to use it as a clutch. You are momentarily surprised that you can see all the small moves in such detail, and at the same time notice that the warg is rising from its slumped position on the ground.

The King gets up, on the sheer will power, and steps towards you. At that moment you feel your magic surging to your hands, and you open your palms. Fierce rage rises in you, and you press one of your hands to your stomach. You hear two beats of your unborn son's heart in your womb, and you thrust the second palm toward the beast.

A roaring, furious wall of flaming gold rushes from you and with a nauseating squelching sound it cuts the body of the beast in two, along its spine, blood pouring on the ground, bones and intestines falling down in unrecognizable fragments. With an alien, blood thirsty pleasure you see two halves of its monstrous head roll on the ground, like two empty bowls, one ear on each side.

Then you fall on your knees and vomit. Your whole body is shaking, loud sobs bursting out of you, and then you feel the King's arms wrapping around. "Thorin!" Dwalin's voice is booming from above. "We are here! We are alright!" You are grabbing handfuls of his coat, he is pressing you into him.

"Thror, it was all Thror..." You are mumbling, your whole body convulsing. "What?!" "Your son in me, it was him. Because of him.. I had no magic like that before." He is crushing you into him. "You did well, Zundushinh. You saved us all..." You are crying now, and he is slowly rocking you.

You hear voices of other Dwarves above, still wound up after the fight. Bilbo is sliding down the hill, and you feel him covering you and the King with his cloak. "We should be moving, Thorin." The King nods and carefully picks you up in his arms. You embrace his neck and hide your face into him. Suddenly he chuckles.

"What?" "Suddenly the perspective of being married to you, my lady, becomes rather intimidating. If that is the magic you acquire when carrying my child, I should think twice before antagonizing you." You smile shakily, still hiding in his neck. "Perhaps you can just limit yourself to having only this child with me. Then I will be able of such enormity only for another twelve moons." "Not going to happen, my heart." You finally chuckle too, and he starts slowly walking up the hill.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

The mind is the effect, not the cause.

-Daniel C. Dennett, philosopher (b. 1942)


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Not "A Word of A Day" but really, it's been lying around for a while, might as well. Thank you, Just4Me, for reminding me of it. Little silly nothing :)**

_Any time after they are already married:_

THORIN'S ARMOUR

Thorin is ticklish. The ribs, the sides of his stomach, the feet, under his knees. Weirdly enough, the inside of his wrists. You sometimes crawl up to him when he is sleeping and gently kiss the skin there. His fingers twitch, and he clenches a fist. The soft spots behind his ears, where shorter hair coils up in little curls. And of course the ears themselves. Sensitive, reddening from a slightest caress, seemingly sending the signals straight down when you kiss and nibble on them.

Clad in official dark blue garments, he is sitting on the throne, listening to a report regarding some tension at the Northern borders. His brows are frowned, the stern look in his blue eyes, lips pressed together, hand stroking his black beard. The royal demeanour surrounds and protects him better than any Dwarven crafted armour. He is a mountain, unwavering, dark and stubborn. Scorching temper is buried under the austere disposition, terrifying in its outbursts. After years by his side you have studied the slightest twitches of brows, the everchanging colour of his irises, the well-hidden frame of mind. Mostly silent and unmoving, his lips and eyes the only intimation for a trained eye to the concealed thoughts, he is a genuine child of Mahal, unyielding and obstinate.

Attired only in a sheet wrapped around his hips, he is falling back into copious heaps of pillows and covers, with roaring laughter, pushing your busy hands away from his warm upper body. All white teeth and crinkles in the corners of his eyes, he is gasping for air, his head falling back, mouth wide open, such unrestrained merriment a rare treat. You straddle him and show no mercy. Your hands roam the broad chest, through coarse black hair covering the solid muscles, jagged scars, your nails scrape the hot skin and slip down to the defenseless ribs. He guffaws and envelops you in his strong heavy arms, the fresh earthy smell of his skin embracing you both. You stretch on him, as if slipping in his warmth and the abiding strength sheathing your King.

You are closing the last of the clasps on his armour, precisely knowing the tightness and the position to ensure comfort and sturdiness. He is frowning, silently preparing for the unknown at the end of the road. The shield and the sword are waiting for him on the table. You cover his shoulders with fur adorned cape and step back. The servants scurry out of the chambers leaving you alone with your King. You wrap your arms around his neck. In the early days of your bond, he seemed to hardly tolerate your displays of attention but with years he started to yearn for the reassurance of your presence and loyalty. He holds your middle with one of his arms and presses you into himself. Through the armour your magic allows you to feel his strong beating heart, and you close your eyes for a second. "Come back to me," you whisper into his ear and feel him nod.

And then just because you cannot stand this solemn bidding goodbyes anymore, you quickly press your lips to his ear and slightly bite, while slipping your fingers at the nape of his neck and tickling under his collar. He jerks away with brows hiked up in surprise. And then a rare open smile adorns his lips and he grabs you, pulls you into a searing kiss, shamelessly groping your buttocks. "I will, kurdu," he kisses your lips again and again, then your cheeks and even the tip of your nose, "and then you will pay for the treachery of your impish fingers!"


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: I signed up for Merriam-Webster Word of the Day instead of the previous site. It was rather finicky and inconsistent. The format will remain the same but they don't have A Quote of The Day. Whatever! But would you just look the very first word they gave me! :D I love them already! :D**

**Yen, **_**noun**_

_**a strong desire or propensity : longing; **_**also**_**: urge, craving**_

_Mirkwood, Dain is 43 years old_

Meltoriel is lying splayed on her lover's back, her head propped on her fist, the second hand running through his chestnut hair. The long slender fingers twirl a strand of heavy thick hair, and the Dwarf underneath her chuckles. "Did you know that it was your older sister who gave me the moniker Aras Erebor, the Stag of Erebor, while I was still in my mother's womb?" His Sindarin is impeccable. The Elven maiden laughs. "Did you know that she harboured unrequited passion for you for years until finally accepting that you prefer me?"

Dain turns sharply and swiftly moves her on his chest. "Dulindil had an eye for me?" Meltoriel wrinkles her perfect nose. "Will that inflate your enormous ego even more, Dain, son of Thorin?" "My ego is not enormous, my mother brought me up well." "And your Dwarven father, have you not inherited his arrogance?" She lifts a brow, and he laughs. "My mother prefered the word cantankerousness. And no, the men from the line of Durin know their worth and behave accordingly, and no more conceitedly than is adequate." He feigns haughtiness.

Meltoriel suddenly slides down his body, and her lips are pressed on his stomach beneath the navel. He guffaws. Her lips are moving on his skin, he feels a caress of warm skillful tongue. He takes a deep breath in, his member stirring to life again. And then she stops and lifts her face to him look at him.

"Why are you here, Aras Erebor?" He lifts his brows in an unconscious imitation of his father's gesture. "Because you invited me to stay, kurdu." The raspy consonants of his native language sound strange in the sleeping chambers of a maiden of Woodland Realm. "What does that word mean?" "My heart." His voice is calm and deep, and she recognizes the peculiar serenity that he carries in him. "Is that how Dwarves call their lovers?" "That is how my kin call their beloved."

He sees her eyes widen. "Am I your beloved?" "Is it not why you decided to invite me to your bed?" She presses her cheek to his abdomen. "I cannot say that was a mindful decision." He picks her up under her arms and pulls her to align their gaze. "And which part of my glorious Elven lover was making this decision if not her mind?" His voice is lower, and the black smooth brow cocks up.

She lowers her lips to his ear. "My kurdu." Her Khuzdul is mediocre but he decides the lesson in pronunciation can wait.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: I was so preoccupied with my thesis, that I ignored the Word of the Day for two days. I looked at them today and they are "calloused" and "reverberate". These are the most CLICHE words one can put into a FF about Thorin Oakenshield and Co.! :) Yes, he worked in forges, yes, his voice is orgasmic and rumbles in his chest! Gee! Do they have no imagination there?! :D Then today they gave me "hirsute", which is pretty much "hairy". Again, really? :)**

**So I just wrote a piece based on my whim and photo prompts from ****RagdollPrincess**** :) Hope you like it, my lovelies!**

The first time Elven maiden Meltoriel sees Dain, son of Thorin, second prince of Erebor, is when he is twenty, half adult age for a Dwarf. She hardly pays him any attention, stunned by the entrance of the small figure of Queen Filegethiel through the gates of the Elvenking's Halls. The guard of twenty Dwarves accompanies her as she arrives for her visit to Mirkwood. She is fulfilling the promise she gave to Meltoriel's older sister, Dulindil, the midwife who assisted the Dwarven Queen in her expectancy, to come back and bring her second son when he reaches maturity.

The forest is agitated, and Meltoriel begins to think that some of the impossible rumours surrounding Queen Filegethiel's relationships with King Thranduil might contain a grain of truth. Each twig in the woods is fluttering, disturbed in its Winter sleep, anguished energy running through the veins in the trunks of the ancient trees.

The Queen steps ahead, her cloak's hood adorned with argent white fur. The top half of her face is concealed, and Meltoriel sees smiling lips, the bottom one plump and red, the top one unusually curved. Everything in the Queen is a contradiction. Her thin, almost fragile body, all bones and angles, obvious even under multiple layers of heavy Dwarven attire moves with a fluidity and grace, her head set proudly and regally, but the smile on the lips is soft and humble. Small hand slides out of a fur muff, and she throws the hood of her strange narrow face. The amber eyes are astonishing, slanted and brilliant, long black lashes flutter. With her Elven eyes, Meltoriel sees heavy white snowflakes fall on her face, on the bright freckles on the exquisite bridge of her nose and high cheekbones.

King Thranduil makes a step towards her and bestows her a low bow. Never has Meltoriel seen such reverence and tenderness on the face of the Elvenking. The Queen stretches her small hand, and it is enveloped into the long slender fingers of the King. A second of silent communication passes between them, and then Meltoriel hears the clear voice of Queen Filegethiel, "My Lord, allow me to present my son, Dain, son of Thorin."

She steps aside and only then Meltoriel notices the young Dwarf behind the Queen. He is obviously the son of this mother. The same elegant contour of face, cheekbones, narrow strong jawline, the same eyes, much brighter shade of green. He is clad in light Dwarven armour, and to her shock Meltoriel sees his father's sword clasped in the scabbard on his back. Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, the legendary Elven blade forged by Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain Court, the weapon of the King Under the Mountain, sits on him with an easy familiarity. Dain gives the King a respectful graceful bow, "It is an honour to be introduced to you, honourable King of the Greenwood the Great." His Sindarin is impeccable, just like his mother's. He receives a cordial nod from the King.

The second time they meet is two days later, when she is hurrying through the Elvenking's Halls and sees him sitting on a window sill. There is an open book on his lap, but he is not reading. The look in his startling eyes is distant, and a large palm is stroking the gutter of the book. He notices her and gets up. He bestows her a bow and then his eyes scrutinize her face. He no doubt sees the resemblance. She steps closer. "Welcome to Mirkwood, Aras Erebor," she is momentarily surprised at her desire to flaunt her knowledge of his personal history. She wonders, why would she want to impress a Dwarf? Half Dwarf she corrects herself, his mother is of Men.

He smiles, and she remembers what they say of his father. The King Under the Mountain is considered attractive even for females of other races. Dain apparently has his profile, the same sensual line of lips, and Meltoriel heard rumours that there are even Elven maidens mad enough to harbor an unrequited longing for King Thorin's blue eyes and strong wide build. Meltoriel finds it preposterous. Even more so, she does not approve of her predecessor's transgressions with the King's nephew. As the new Captain of the Border Guard Meltoriel feels Tauriel tarnished the honour of a proud Elven maiden and betrayed the path of an Elven warrior.

The slanted green eyes run her body, and she realizes that against her better judgement she is affected. By the heat coming from his body, by the serenity and mirth in his eyes, by the grace and lightness of his movements, when he closes his book and steps closer. "I thank you for your hospitality, honourable Captain."

She tenses. Apparently she is not the only one possessing knowledge of the other in this conversation. She also realizes one does not need to ask him questions, his mind swift and perceptive. "Your King was so kind as to allow me to observe the training of your guards, honourable Captain." She does not remember seeing him at the training clearing in the woods. "He also suggested I remained unnoticed." The noble face of the Dwarf is serene.

"And how have you achieved such feat, honourable prince?" He gives her a calm, almost absent-minded smile. "I possess magic to conceal me in the forests. Also, Mirkwood seems to be favourable towards me," He looks at the dark trunks of the trees outside the window, "The woods have welcomed my return."

She is staring at him, her chest heaving with agitated breaths. She tries to remind herself he is a Dwarf, a creature of lifeless stone, fire and ax, brutal and barbaric, greedy for cold dead gold. He cannot understand the woods and feel the life force of Mirkwood. But she cannot seem to tear her eyes from an elegant jawline, delicate cheekbones and long black lashes, his eyes fixed on the dim shadows of the forest. "I envy you, honorable Captain. When I was a child my mother used to take me and my brother to spend nights in the woods around Erebor. My brother hated it," Dain chuckles, "He is all about metal and fire, and preferably combined in a forge and eventually shaped in a weapon of sorts. So we would go just the two of us. We would wander for hours, and then spend nights in the tent. Sometimes we would not return home for weeks."

"And what did your father think about it?" She does not know why she is asking and why she is stepping closer. He turns to her, and she sees mischievous glint in his eyes. She just saw the same slightly sarcastic amusement in the eyes of The Queen of Erebor during the celebratory dinner. "You have met my mother, honourable Captain, no one contradicts her."

"Queen Filegethiel is a persuasive diplomat," Meltoriel remembers the clear and calm manners of the Queen. The regal tone makes a person listen, the wise words make them obey. "She is also more stubborn than any Dwarf," the prince suddenly laughs, and her eyes widen in disbelief, "I think after all these years no one doubts that she will get what she wants. Father stopped resisting long ago and just follows her will."

Meltoriel cannot believe such insolence. Speaking of one's parents in such words! And then she hears a soft rustle of the fabric behind her. She turns around and sees the Queen. In a heavy white velvet dress, decorated with river pearls and onyxes, low cut showing a heavy opal necklace, she is a harmonious and notable presence.

"Do not scare our gracious host, Dain," she is laughing, "I am as timid as a rabbit." She comes to her son and ruffles his chestnut hair. There is a braid hidden in his mane, and the colour of the strands is indeed remarkable. Dulindil predicted it, coining his moniker Aras Erebor, the Stag of Erebor. She has a gift of seeing the outline of all of a babe's life while they are still in their mother's womb. She also predicted his preeminent gift and his wisdom. Meltoriel can see now why her sister was so fascinated by him. She also sees that he will grow into a very beautiful man, and she recoils from her own thoughts. A Dwarven prince is of no interest for her, an Elven warrior and the Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood.

Mother and son are looking into each other eyes, and the Queen smirks. She turns to the Meltoriel, "Has he been telling you what a terrible tyrant I am and how everyone is afraid of my disapproval? Because that would be a shameless and utter lie. Never have I managed to persuade any King of anything." Meltoriel does not miss the plural mentioning of Kings. There is a story somewhere there, with King Thranduil's name mentioned in it, but she does not know if she is willing to hear it. He is her sovereign, and something tells her that the fact that the small redhaired woman is wearing the heavy opal necklace and not his ring on her finger means that he has not triumphed at least in one battle in his life.

"Allow me a bold request, honourable Captain," the Queen's tone is polite. It also does not leave any room for refusal. Meltoriel nods, "My son would like to join you in your patrol tomorrow. I assure you he will not be a burden. Although as you can understand, a mother is never impartial," her slender hand lies on her son's shoulder, and he suddenly presses his cheek into it. The gesture, though it could understood as almost childish and showing vulnerability, shows warmth and openness between the two and makes him look only more mature.

"I might be too slow for our friends, amad," His eyes are laughing, "A Dwarf stomping through Mirkwood, what a ridicule!" The Queen laughs and strokes his thick chestnut beard. "I am sure our hosts will be forgiving. Will you, my friend?" She looks into Meltoriel's eyes and lifts a brow.

Meltoriel remembers what Dulindil told her about the Dwarven Queen. She remembers her sister's admiration for the Queen's ability to gently impose her will, among other things her talent to conceal a command in a form of a question. "My guard would be honoured, my lady." Meltoriel bows to the small woman and receives a radiant smile in return.

"Well, with this settled, I will go and convince honourable healer Lumorn to gift me with a collection of his draughts that he did not know he wanted to share with me," Her eyes are laughing. Then she turns to her son and he gives her a lopsided grin. She tut-tuts and shakes her head, "You look so much like your father," she cups his face and rubs her thumb to his temple, in an apparently customary caress, "Do not follow his example, ghivasha, be careful on the patrol." He nods, "I promise, amad."

When the Queen leaves, graciously bidding goodbye, Meltoriel turns to the prince. "If you do not mind me asking, what does "ghivasha" mean?" She cannot pronounce the throaty consonants of the word, as she presumes, in Khuzdul, but he understands. "My amad is unreasonably kind to me and calls me her treasure," He smiles with warmth, "I do not deserve her love, as no one is worthy of the love of the Queen of Erebor, but luckily for me, a mother's love is unconditional." Meltoriel's heart flutters, and she thinks that perhaps the Queen is right and he is indeed the most precious treasure of Erebor.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: For ****Iamje****. Since you asked, my friend :)**

**Royal road, **_**noun**_

_**An easy way to achieve something.**_

The Queen is exceptionally beautiful today, an elegant dress of the colour of river pearls, argent ermine fur on the collar and the sleeves, heavy gems around her neck and in her earlobes. The luscious heavy hair is arranged into an intricate do, heavy braids falling on the elegant collarbones. The King leans in and whispers into her ear, "You look magnificent today, kurdu, you are the moon and the stars of this night." The raspy consonants of Khuzdul sound like a caress on his lips, and she returns his smile. "I am not the center of attention today, my King, but I appreciate your sentiment." He smiles to her lovingly and strokes her beard with the tips of his fingers.

Then it is time for his toast. He gets up and picks up the goblet, "Today we celebrate the love between Bili, son of Bofur, and my sister Unna, daughter of Thorin. May your marriage be plentiful and may Mahal bring you many healthy sons!" The wedding guests cheer, and Thror sees his sister blush. He also notices a lovebite on her neck that peeks out when one of her heavy braids shifts to the side. He shakes his head and smirks. He should prepare for nephews as soon as sixteen months from now.

His own sons were born after a full Dwarven term but he does not know how much his mother's human blood influenced his sister's childbearing. "What are you thinking about, my love?" Queen Fjola's melodic voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He gives her a lopsided smirk. "Of our sons." His wife sighs. "Thorin obliterated another set of armour today, you have to convince him to mitigate his temper. Just because he is not pleased, it does not mean he can take it out on valuable items." The Queen is a genuine daughter of her people. Her appreciation for armour and other forged valuables is immense.

"I am afraid he is just trying to live up to the expectation that his name imposes on him," the King smirks, "My father has been known for taking it out on swording dummies." "I am sure the legendary King Thorin Oakenshield had a much better reign over his emotions."

A loud gleeful guffaw behind then makes them turn their head and look at Dain, the King's younger brother. "Have you not told your wife the story of how our father threw a dummy across the yard and toppled over a carriage of pumpkins once?" The King chuckles. "Or the time after that when he was so enraged with something that our mother said to him during a feast that he had to hastily leave the hall, since he was no fool to say anything back to her, and he closed the door behind him with such force that it cracked from floor to the ceiling?" The Queen looks at the brothers in disbelief.

"It is true. Amad was the only person who could mollify him in his outbursts." Dain lifts his goblet and gives his sister-in-law a wink. She giggles. No one can resist the second prince of Erebor. Thror lifts his brow, and unknown to him he looks exactly like his father at that moment. Dain slams his palm into his brother's shoulder and leaves to talk to other guests.

The Queen turns to her husband. "Has Dain by chance talked to you about marriage?" Thror chokes on his wine. "Dain? Is he even aware what marriage is? He seems not here half of the time." Fjola's eyes follow the graceful walk of her brother-in-law. "Believe my intuition of a woman, my King, he is more than ready. He is beyond his battle age, I'm certain many will be interested. I can consult a matchmaker."

Despite his odd looks and strange interests, Dain seems to attract maidens like flame attracts the moths. He is seemingly ignorant. Unlike his brother Othin, who seems to be in a perpetual state of alert and chasing yet another skirt. His endless pursuit is not explained by the lack of success, but the fleeting nature of his interest. As soon as he knows that he got the attention of a maiden, he seals in with a kiss, which many say can not be that easily forgotten or surpassed in its skill and ardour, and moves on.

"I do not think Dain will fit well into an arranged marriage, my heart, he can hardly survive social restrictions of any sort on everyday basis," the King looks at his brother, who is leaning over a table, and sees yet another Dwarven maiden listen to him with an exaggerated interest, her bosom heaving in a bodice of her velvet dress. The King sighs, "Although it might be the easier way to alleviate many turbulent emotions in Erebor." "Our marriage was arranged as well, and seems to turn out rather well," Fjola gives her husband a playful glance askew.

He guffaws, "The only arranged thing in this marriage was that you forced your mother to hire a matchmaker and introduce us. After that it was all Mahal's will." She smiles to him and squeezes his hand on the table top. "And see how well it played out. Three healthy sons. You should be proud of yourself."

"My mother used to say that sons are the achievements of mothers," he picks up her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles, "So thank you, my heart, for three sons." She smiles back to him, "Queen Zundushinh knew what she was talking about. Her maternal achievements are unsurpassable." The guests roar with laughter and cheers, and the King sees his sister in a passionate embrace with her new husband. Their first son is born in sixteen months to the day.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: WTF is wrong with Merriam-Webster Word of the Day?! O_o**

**A/N#2: Who wanted their very first, very much heated kiss in a pantry? *wink***

**Narwhal, **_**noun**_

_**an arctic cetacean (**_**Monodon monoceros**_**) about 20 feet (6 meters) long with the male having a long twisted ivory tusk.**_

**A/N#3: I went with the idea that narwhals are the reason the legend of unicorns was born :)**

_Five years after BoFA, three years after Wren arrives to Dale, right before the battle with the Orcs (that I invented) where she saves his life, right after her memories in Chapter 6 of "Thorin's Return to Shire" when he gives her his sword, __Mudikh__; the battle is partially describe in "5 Times Your Names Was not Yours..."_

You are hurrying down the stairs, jumping over a few steps, and slam into a broad Dwarven body. You lift your face and stare into the blue eyes of the King Under the Mountain. Your heart stops. He is clad in the full battle armour, his brigandine over his dark blue attire from earlier on, a long leather coat with fur collar, the legendary oak branch shield grasped in his hand, and you gasp. You eyes fall on Orcrist gleaming in his hands and the realization of the reality of war finally reaches your mind.

You are clenching his childhood sword in your hand, and he gives you a look over. "You need some armour, honourable healer," he catches an arm of a warrior rushing by. "Get the lady healer a breastplate and a helmet," the Dwarf nods and disappears. The King turns to you again, "Go to the Lower Halls with the rest of women and children, we are closing the Erebor Gates now." You nod, knowing that you are not going to follow his order.

Warriors rush by you two in both directions, there are screams and commands ringing through the air, clanging of many armour pieces and stomping steps echoing in the stone walls. And then the world is gone, and all you can see is a strange light flickering in his eyes. He grabs your arm and pulls you towards the nearest door. He jerks it open, but it is not a chamber but a pantry. It does not seem to bother him though, he pushes you inside and closes the door behind you two.

Your back bumps into a shelf with some linen, and you lift your eyes at him in confusion. He is staring at your face, brows frowned, eyes blazing, his face almost enraged, and then he dives ahead and presses his lips to yours.

You close your eyes and will yourself to forget everything around you. His lips are warm, you catch the fresh spicy smell of his skin, his left arm slides around your waist, and he presses you closer to him. His lips still do not move, and you suddenly realize that must be one of his first kisses. Tenderness floods you and you wrap your arms around his neck. The encouragement spurs him and he starts to move, quickly catching up on what seems to work for you, and soon his white teeth nip on your bottom lip. You push your fingers into his hair and moan. It is magnificent! You might have fantasized about it for months by now, but you surely could not predict the orgasmic qualities of the silky, heavy, luscious waves. Your knees buck, and you are only standing since his arm supports your waist.

He lets you go equally suddenly, and you stumble back. Without a single word he pushes the door open and disappears in the passage. You are standing and staring at a tablecloth decorated with embroidered roosters.

You make two decisions. If you survive today, you will not allow yourself to question what just happened. It came and it went, and you will not analyze this. You will not come up with any smart explanations, since all of them are a pile of poppycock anyways. And decision number two. You will only allow yourself think of it one time a day. Once, a single instance of recalling and probably fantasizing, but only one a day.

If you survive this battle. And to do so you have to leave the pantry. But you cannot. Your legs are wobbly, and you are shaking. If he is that good and this is what he has done to you after one hurried kiss, what would it be like to..? You shake your head and tell yourself you have used up your one time for today. You pick up the sword from the floor, where it probably fell when he kissed you, you do not know, you did not hear any clang, and step out into the passage.

**Final A/N: The next reviewer of this story receives a virtual kiss from King Under the Mountain since that will be review #100! :) Happy anniversary, my dearest reviewers :D**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: And the kiss from the King Under the Mountain goes to katnor! Congratulations on your review#100 :D The others who commented on that chapter receive a smooch on the cheek. Let's face it, Thorin is a generous bloke :)**

**A/N: A bit of cheeky fluff to cheer me up after writing four heavy chapters of "Thorin's Trust" in one day. And yes, four, I would post them all at once, but that would be so non-sadistic of me, and that is so not in my nature :D Plus, then people tend to review only the last one and I want to see your reaction every step on this excruciating path:) *evil laugh***

**Debunk, **_**verb**_

_**to expose the sham or falseness of.**_

_Some time in Wren's third year in Erebor, they already share rooms but they are not betrothed yet. Wren is visiting Thea in Dale._

You two are lying on a sheepskin rug in front of a fireplace, you on your back staring at the ceiling, Thea on her stomach, twirling a cherry by its stem in her long delicate fingers. You are pleasantly dazed from alcohol and delicious food, the warmth from the fireplace caressing your skin. Thea is wiggling her bare foot.

"So, Wren..." Oh, here we go! You groan and cover your face with your hands. You know what is coming. You have discussed your work in Erebor, the Dwarven traditions, Dwarven fashion, and even Dwarven food. Then you opened the wine, and you discussed Thea's latest trips with the merchants, her numerous lovers since you left for Erebor, you suspect she was easing you into the topic, and her health concerns.

Her tone is sweet as honey, and her eyes are gleaming with predatory fire. But you have prepared. She is your oldest friend, and you know that she is only interested in one topic of conversation, but she wants to know all possible details, and she is willing to torture you for them using all available devices. And this topic is the penis of the King Under the Mountain Thorin Oakenshield.

You understand her well, it is not that she is interested in trying it out herself, but she knows that it would be the only Dwarven penis you are familiar with, and she craves knowledge. And you have it. And noone else does. Since Dwarves do not bed women of other races. Your story is an exception.

The only problem is she does not know all of the truth. As many night and days as you spent naked, or at least partially, and intertwined with the glorious Dwarf, you do not know anything about specifics of Dwarven lovemaking. Since he had not known any of it before you. Everything that transpires between you two is what you two have discovered and explored. Your experience before him was limited to one, rather cold and passive, lover, and it had been so many years since then you hardly remember anything.

But you most definitely remember the goodbye you received from the King before leaving for a week. And so do your buttocks. The balm has eased the rug burns but you are still very sensitive.

You sit up and pin Thea to the floor with a stern look. "Thea, I know what you want to ask, and here is my answer. You can ask me three questions and I will answer them honestly and in detail. And we will never talk about it again. Either you accept this deal, or you will have to torture me with a red hot metal stick, and still I will not talk."

Thea feigns innocence. "I have no idea what you are talking about, girl." "I am talking about bedding the King Under the Mountain Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, a Dwarf, and my lover. So shoot! This is your opportune moment to expand your horizons."

Thea sits up as well and shoves the cherry in her mouth. She stretches her arm towards you, "Deal," you shake hands, and you wait. She is chewing thoughtfully, "Do I have to ask them all now or can I stretch it? I need to choose carefully." "You can think, but nothing too vague or wide. No questions such as "What positions have you tried?" First of all, I do not remember them all, second of all it is pretty much retelling it all. Short, concise questions." She pouts, "That is rather limiting, Wren. I will need five of these." "Four, and that is my last offer." "Deal." You were certain you would not weasel your way out of six. You feel triumphant.

You stay in Dale for a week, and for two days Thea does not ask. You spend time together, go to the market, try on shawls, eat honeyed nuts. You talk about everything else, laugh and reminisce. You are finishing your dinner on day three in front of the fire again when Thea's clears her throat. "I have two." You nod, "Alright, let us hear them."

"Describe me the sword." "It is not a question, Thea." "Do not be a grouch. Wren. Consider it question number one. Now describe me the sword." You were so ready for this one. "It is an Elven blade, Orcrist, it was presumably forged in Gondolin, by Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain Court, who killed countless Orcs with it during the Fall of Gondolin…" "What are you talking about?!" Thea is pressing her fists in her hips, and you giggle. "You asked me about the sword..." "Maiar, help me, Wren, I did not expect such cunningness and such treachery from you…" "I am only protecting myself, Thea!"

She is pouting. "Do you want to ask me your second question or should I continue the forgery class?" She narrows her eyes at you, but she knows she lost this round. "Alright, Wren, since you think you are so smart, here is my question number two. Tell me about his cock." You open your mouth, and then she yells, "Stop! You are going to tell me about some rooster in Erebor kitchens, are you not?" You giggle. "Damn it, Wren… Penis, Wren, I need the description of King Thorin's penis." You roar with laughter and fall on the rug.

And then you talk, you show the length and the width with your hands, and the curve with your finger, you share fond memories and reenact a few with the help of two spoons. Thea is delighted. And careless. Your plan is working.

"Oh Maiar help me, Wren, that is simply magnificent! And a lot, really a lot to take, Wren. How are you managing?" And you know you got her. "And answering your fourth question, Thea, with great pleasure." She jumps up on her feet and starts stomping in indignation. "No, Wren, that is not fair. That was not my fourth question! And what kind of answer is this? Obviously, with great pleasure. You would not have gone with him to Erebor had it not been pleasurable." "I would have gone with him to Erebor even if he had not had a penis, Thea." She freezes and stares at you.

You are smiling. "I love him, Thea. And as much as I enjoy his body, it is not what keeps me in Erebor." "I know that," Thea is suddenly serious, "Wren, I will ask you my fourth question right now, and you have to answer me honestly. Are you happy in Erebor?" You smile to her and nod. "Completely."

She sits on the rug near you and pulls you to her. "Then I approve of him. Even though I still do not know anything about his bedding." You laugh. "Well, since you were so nice, Thea, I will tell you about this one time when he got so randy that he bent me over his throne…" And you proceed telling it. Thea's eyes are twice as big as they normally are. And she thought she was the lewd one!


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: Found this old drabble, one of my first ever written, thought I should post it :) **

**THORIN'S SPOON**

You are weaving your magic, carefully, gently, your fingers twitching, following the invisible schemes in your head, unseen ribbons and strands, silken and warm, intertwining and snaking around you head and your shoulders, looping and braiding in your hair, your hands open resting on your knees, the gold and the glow heating up your heart.

The curtains are drawn on the windows of your chambers, shielding you from the first morning rays. You are occupying the tallest room in the Royal Halls, as you might be the only resident of the Kingdom Under the Mountain who actually enjoys having a window. You are sitting with your legs crossed on an animal skin rug, your eyes closed, shoulders relaxed. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs and straightening your spine. You feel your whole body tingling with power, you ground yourself and slow your heart.

A sudden surge of inspiration spurs your magic, you ride with the wave and the little swirls of magic incited by an unexpected mischievous flicker in your mind scatter around. You feel something tickling you, something that, if you were talking of a person and not your magic, feels surprisingly close to giggles. You frown, though light-heartedly, quite at loss at the sensation. And then you grasp it, the thrill and the shiver running through your mind.

You open your eyes and see your King, one shoulder leaning to the doorframe. He is looking at you tenderly, his face serene and loving. You cock your brow, "My Lord..." A light reproach colours your voice. He visibly tenses, he did not expect to be caught. Sharing the bedchambers, you nonetheless respect each others boundaries, your wizardry time is yours and yours only.

Every morning you go to your study adjoint to your former bedchamber, and never before has he interrupted this sacred hour. He straightens up and hides his embarrassment behind a small cough. You smile and stretch your arms to him. He hastily steps and pulls you up, embracing you tightly, hiding his face in your hair.

"My King?" you are getting anxious, alarmed by his odd behaviour. Even more so, you hike up your brows when you hear a low chuckle and feel it vibrating through his broad chest you are currently pressed into. You slightly push him away and holding his shoulders at the arm's length, you are studying his face. You are met by his laughing eyes and a tiny warm smile twitching his lips.

"I feel rather… nonsensical," he chuckles again. He cups your face and softly kisses your lips. "You turned a proud king into a feather-brained adolescent." You are still puzzled, the meaning of his odd mood eluding you. "Next thing you will see is Thorin Oakenshield carving a spoon", he shakes his head good-naturedly and, giving you another amiable smile, he leaves your room. You are standing in the middle of the room proceeding to impersonate a statue. What in the Durin's name was that? And what was it about... making spoons?

**A/N: Do you know what this spoon thing is all about? ;)**


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: There was a little thought that I left for myself in "5 Times Your Name Was Not Yours..." (I wrote it way back), and I decided it is time to go back to it :D **

**A/N#2: This one is all smut! No plot here whatsoever :)**

**A/N#3: The story might grow into a smutty multichapter, you will see why if you read it :D It has all the potential. Pure smut potential that is! :P**

**Epistolary, **_**adjective**_

_**1. of, relating to, or suitable to a letter;**_

_**2. contained in or carried on by letters;**_

_**3. written in the form of a series of letters.**_

_Sometime in the second year of Wren's life in Erebor_

You are slipping into the King's sleeping chambers and tiptoe to the bed. He hardly uses his bedroom, spending most of his nights in yours, but he is due to return to it before coming to you, to organize his papers and to change. He is in a council right now, and you approach his bed. You place what you brought with you on it and flee.

You are sitting on your knees in a small chamber on the furs and covers that you brought with you and arranged in a wide makeshift bed in the middle of the room, when the door opens and the King comes in. In his hand he is holding the small filigree key decorated with river pearls and opals that you left for him on his bed. He looks around, at the candles burning on the shelves and the floor of the room, at the wine and the food that you took out of a basket, and at you, in a thin nightdress, strategically unlaced, arranged to cover your body, but holding only on two bows of ribbon between your breasts.

He locks the door behind him and approaches. "So you found the craft room of Queen Ais, the Queen of Erebor, wife of Thorin I, my namesake." You smile. "Yes, my Lord, I saw it in one of the maps and became very curious. And it does not disappoint, does it not? All the mysterious machinery along the walls that I know nothing about," he chuckles, "except perhaps a loom." You point at the device by the wall. He slowly stalks around you, and you feel goosebumps rising all over your body. "She was renowned for her heraldic tapestries," his voice is low and indecent.

He kneels behind you. His lips ghost an inch away from the naked skin of your nape, and you shiver. "It is a good thing I know my halls well, my lady. Would you be sitting here all night waiting for me if I had gotten lost on my way here?" You slightly turn your head and look at him over your shoulder. "I was hoping my Lord would feel motivated to find me soon." "Oh, he definitely was. Considering your other clue." His arm encircles you and he shows you his hand. The small scrap of lace you also left for him is dangling from his finger. You giggle. It is piece of your drawers he destroyed last night.

The hot greedy mouth is roughly pressed to your nape, and you moan throatily. The arm lies on your middle, and he forcefully pulls you up and into him. Your back is pressed into his chest, his other hand slides on the front of your nightdress, and the deft fingers pick up the ends of the ribbons. He pulls unhurriedly, enjoying the suspense, his lips on your neck. The halves of the dress fall open, and he slides his scorching palm on your pebbled peaks. You drop your head back.

He is sucking on the muscle between your neck and shoulder, and you moan louder. You push your hand between your bodies and unclasp the buckle on his trousers. Both his hands are now caressing your breasts, and he gently bites your ear. And then he pushes you ahead, dropping one of his hands on the floor, another one supporting your weight. You place both your hands on the furs as well, to steady yourself. He lets you go for an instant and pushes his trousers down.

He is kissing your shoulders, pushing the nightdress off the path of his hot lips, and then the head of his member pushes into your folds. You slightly spread you legs and take him in. You both moan loudly. He is supporting his weight on one arm, and the second slides on your clit. You batter it away. The sensations are already overwhelming. His hand slides on the inner side of your thigh, and he feels the moist coating it.

"You are positively drenched, my Lady," his raspy whisper is driving you mad. You push your pelvis back obviously trying to spur him. He chuckles and straightens up. His large hands lie on your hips, and he thrusts experimentally. You cry out and hear another low chuckle. And then he pulls out almost fully, halts for a second and when you are almost ready to complain he slams into you. You wail, and your arms give in. You fall on your elbows, and he tut-tuts.

He leans ahead and his palms slide along your arms. And then his hands encircle your wrists, and he gently makes you get up. And then he pulls them back. Your weight shifts and you are hanging, your arms in his hands like reigns.

You relax and arch your back. "Oh, yes, please..." He tentatively thrusts in you, and you moan. "I love it when you are so polite and decorous when I am bedding you…" The second thrust is much less delicate. "Please, my Lord, more..." He thrusts again. And then he stops. "Beg, my Queen." You moan from the sheer sinfulness of his strained gruff voice. "Please, my Lord, I am begging you… Please, move…"

He starts forcefully thrusting his hips, your body pulled into him in the rhythm with his length slamming into you, he is still conscious not to hurt your shoulders, his large cock pressing into you to the limit. You cry out with each of his movements, he is picking up speed, his tip hitting your cervix, and you are mewling, begging for more.

His control is slipping, and soon your shoulders start to hurt, each of his thrusts bringing ache and pleasure mixed into a dizzying blend, your walls clenching around him, and you climax. You sag ahead, your shoulders twisted painfully, and he pulls your body into him couple more times, and releases. For a second your bodies are still, his member jerking in you, your laboured breaths heard in the room, and then he starts slumping.

You momentarily feel terrified that you will fall ahead, but then his arms let go of your wrists and wrap around your middle. You two are falling, and he twist your bodies, his back hitting the furs, you in the warm circle of his arms.

You are lying in silence and then you move your shoulders and hiss. He nuzzles your hair and you hear remorse in his voice, "Have I hurt you, my heart?" You smile and shake you head. "It was wonderful, my Lord."

He is kissing your temple, and you chuckle, "We have not even touched the food and the wine." "If you were hungry, my heart, you should not have dressed this way." You giggle. "At least this dress stayed intact." "It is not yet morning, honourable healer," his voice is full of promise. Then he carefully places you down and gets up. You stretch in the furs and gaze at him.

He pulls up his trousers and sheds the outergrament and waistcoat. And then he picks up the silver key from the floor and twirls it in his hand. He smirks and puts it in his pocket. "For the next time." You questioningly lift your brows. He smiles to you. "Next time when I will leave you a message with the key in your bedroom, my lady." You return his smile. Let the game begin!

**P.S. Re: previous story: somehow I thought that such sturdy and practical people as Dwarves should have the tradition similar to Welsh Lovespoons :)**

**The Lovespoon is a traditional craft that dates back to the seventeenth century. Over generations, decorative carvings were added to the spoon and it lost its original practical use and became a treasured decorative item to be hung on a wall.**

**The earliest known dated Lovespoon from Wales, displayed in the St. Fagans National History Museum near Cardiff, is from 1667, although the tradition is believed to date back long before that. The earliest dated Lovespoon worldwide originates from Germany, and is dated as 1664.**

**The Lovespoon was given to a young woman by her suitor. Certain symbols came to have specific meanings: a horseshoe for luck, a cross for faith, bells for marriage, hearts for love, a wheel supporting a loved one and a lock for security, among others. Caged balls indicated the number of children hoped for. Other difficult carvings, such as chains, were as much a demonstration of the carver's skill as a symbolic meaning.**

**Although the Welsh Lovespoon is the most famous there are also traditions of Lovespoons in Scandinavia and some parts of Eastern Europe, which have their own unique styles and techniques when it comes to the Lovespoon.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Belfry,**_** noun**_

_**1. A bell tower; also the part of a tower where a bell is hung.**_

_**2. Head. Usually in the phrase **_**to have bats in the belfry**_**, meaning to be crazy.**_

_Right after the wedding, expecting Thror_

You are standing on the top of the stairs, greeting guests. The King is on your left, and you look at him from the corner of your eye. The festive dark blue attire compliments the ebony mane and the blue eyes, and you smile proudly. He catches your eyes, and the corner of his lips twitches. You slightly lift your brow, and he licks his lips. Unknown to everyone else, you have just exchanged several lewd promises. You already cannot wait for the feast to end.

You shift your eyes and see a Dwarf slowly ascending from the bottom of the stairs. He is ancient, you have never seen a longer white beard. His skin is so dark and wrinkled that he looks like a stump of a giant tree, wide, crooked, but still sturdy. "Frar, son of Nalin, one of the closest lieutenants of my grandfather," you hear your husband whisper, "As mad as a box of frogs."

"But his hearing is still excellent," the raspy voice of your guest makes the King jerk. You bite into your bottom lip. Not everyday day one sees such panicked expression on the King's face. "And probably still agile enough to topple you on your back, boy."

The Dwarf approaches, and his pale grey eyes peer at you. You smile decorously. "What do we have here? The new Queen of Erebor, as I've heard. And already up the spout." You see the King's jaw clench, and you giggle. You do not know why you do not feel intimidated, but you are completely at ease before the imposing Dwarf.

"Welcome to Erebor, Frar, son of Nalin. It is an honour to be presented to you," your Khuzdul is exceptional, and the bushy white eyebrows jump up. "The Queen is good with tongue, as I see." You see muscles tense on the King's jaw, one of his fists clench.

You chuckle. Two can play this game. You pat the Dwarf's shoulder and pronounce in a lilting voice, "She is also exceptionally good in handling a Dwarven sword." Both men stare at you, mouths agape, and you smile innocently.

"I like this one. A Dwarf or not, she has the ursel," _fire of fires, _the greatest compliment you could have received. You see the King straighten his back, his shoulders relax.

"I thank you for honouring my house with your presence, Master Frar." "Oh don't fret, I came for the ale, boy." The Dwarf turns to you again, "May Mahal give you a healthy son, young Queen." You smile to him.

And then you lean to his ear and whisper, "We are naming him Thror, and he is exceptionally strong already. I am a midwife, I know what I am saying." A warm smile adorns his stern face. "I am certain he will be worthy of his name." He pats your hand on his forearm, and proceeds to the feast hall.

You return to your position near the King, and he looks at your askew. "What were you two whispering about?" "Do not tell me, my King, that you are jealous of the respectable old warrior." "There is nothing respectable in Frar, son of Nalin. On his way to the hall he looked behind and appraised your glorious backside, my Queen." You giggle. "Who can blame him, my Lord? It is irresistible today, it is having an exceptionally jubilant day."

"That it is," the King murmurs, and you feel his hot palm graze your buttocks. You snort but then school your face into a decorous expression. There is the next guest going up the stairs.


	37. Chapter 37

**My lovelies!**

**I decided to take a break from writing A Word A Day drabbles. I sent the draft of my thesis to my Advisor so I am elated and temporary free, until he revises it and I have to rewrite the whole damn thing! :S**

**So I decided to let Wren and Thorin have some peace (I have a feeling they deserve some after the conundrum with Thranduil:) and indulge myself. I am going to go back to my modern AUs. "Thorin's Trust" is written except for the smutty epilogue, that does not usually take long :P So, the next up is either "Heal All Wounds" or even "Blind Carnival" if I feel giddy enough. I need to be in a very good mood for this one! It is so angst-free that I sometimes need to fuel my happiness with chocolate when writing it :)**

**Also, "We Are Scattered Through Time and Space" is open for prompts again. This time I decided to try song prompts. Post them in review for WASTTaS :) Please, be merciful, no Justin Bieber (or I might get distraught and kill a couple of Wrens or Johns :P). Anything with at least half-decent lyrics will go :)**

**Have the loveliest of days!**

**Love you all!**


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: No, I just can't stay away from them! They are the original, my most favorite Thowren! :D I will go back to modern AUs **_**and**_** continue with A Word A Day! **

**Ambage, **_**noun**_

_**Ambiguity; circumlocution.**_

_Back in Erebor from the Shire, just before the wedding, already expecting Thror_

You lips slide from the strong neck to his chest, and you claw through the black thick chest hair. It is like some expensive fur of some small fast animal, and you bite into a hard muscle. He oomphs, and a hot palm lies on your shoulder. You slide lower, both your hands raking his chest, and his body jerks. Dwarven tissues are denser than those of Men, skin rougher, hotter, and slightly more eager caresses are safe to indulge into. To be honest, they seem to be preferred. It is a surprisingly fortunate happenstance since you tend to get carried away. And you are the woman who had thought she just was not libidinous and honestly could live her whole life completely content in celibacy. Last night in the rupture of your release you bit his finger and drew blood. He should have known better though than put it in your mouth. The King Under the Mountain causes some strange carnal frenzy in you.

You have reached the stomach already, your fingers still on the pectoral muscles, you do love the solid plains of his chest. You nuzzle the stomach and then purr, "You are not talking, my Lord." "I seem to be distracted, my lady…" You so love this raspiness of his voice when he is aroused. And he is indeed. At the moment his erect member is constricted in his breeches but it is obviously almost painfully uncomfortable.

You nuzzle the thick trail of hair going down from his navel and then bite into his skin. "The deal is the deal, my Lord. You talk, I move." He chuckles. "You are exceptionally good in twisting my arm into doing what you want, my future Queen." "If you talk enough, I might gently twist some other of your extremities later as well." He chokes on his laughter.

"What am I talking about today?" You know for certain that he enjoys these lessons in talking about his feelings no less that you do. Being a proud and headstrong Dwarf as he is, he never allows any coercion or imposing others' will on him. He is consenting to this openness, and not only for the obvious reason of receiving all sorts of favours in bed, but you think that secretly he wants to talk about your love. You suspect you might be the only person in the world who knows the expanse of the King's insecurity, in general and in the matters of heart. Your wedding is in two moons and you are carrying his son, but he seems to still require the confirmation that you are here to stay. You are more than happy to provide it.

"You were telling me about our first night, my Lord." He groans. Is that the blush of embarrassment adding into the flush of arousal already burning on his cheekbones? "You were there, my lady. I am certain you remember at least some of the specifics." You lick along the line of his trousers' waist.

"Tell me what you felt when you realized where it was going." He suddenly guffaws. "Will you believe me, my lady, if I tell you it took a while to catch up with what was happening?" You look up at him. His eyes are laughing, and you feel a sudden surge of adoration for him. He looks a tiny bit shy as well. "And when was it exactly?" "I think you unclasping my buckle did it." He is smiling to you. You press your cheek to the bulge on his breeches. "And I thought I was very direct, my Lord." "You were, but I was still wary of misinterpreting your behaviour."

You sit up. "I led you to my room and locked the door behind myself!" "You are forgetting it was the first time I was in such circumstances, my lady." "Oh, I do remember," you are murmuring, "That was quite a surprise, my lord." Now he is definitely blushing. You take pity and pull on the strings of his breeches. He moans when his erect member finally springs to freedom. You encircle it with your hand. "Though I have to say, my Lord, had you not informed me of it then, I would not have known." You gently swirl your thumb on the tip, and he drops his head back.

His voice is choked. "It only shows your own inexperience, my lady." You lower your face and give a slow deliberate swirl of your tongue around the ridge of his glans. "Have you thought that may be you are just that good, Thorin?" Your own voice is so much lower, and he growls. You rarely use his name, and it seems to breach his defences today. He grabs you under your arms and pulls you on his chest. Your round stomach is still small enough to allow such position.

The large hot palms lie on your shoulder blades, and he strokes you skin with his thumbs. You are surprised to see in his face affectionate tenderness instead of feral hunger of a few moments ago. He is generally fascinated with your back, often spending long time kissing and rubbing his face to it, and such gentle caresses as he is bestowing you now are a clear sign of emotions overwhelming him. You stroke his face.

"I still do not know why you did it..." Your heart clenches. His voice is quiet, he is not looking into your eyes. "Because I was enamoured with you." The blue eyes fly up, and he is staring into yours. You smile and quickly kiss his lips. "What other reason could I have had, you nonsensical Dwarf?" "For how long?" Now, who is pouring their heart out today? You chuckle and lovingly scrape his beard with your short nails. He half-closes his eyes, and there is a low rumble in his chest. Then the black lashes fly up again, and his gaze is intense and attentive. "For how long?" You sigh. You have started this conversation, now you have to pay up. "From the start probably. From the day you caught me wandering in your Halls." He is stroking your back.

You settle more comfortably on his chest. "You were the first man I have noticed in years. Probably trying to chop off my head sort of made you stand out." He tsks, "Do not be ridiculous, my lady, there was no danger of your head to get separated from your glorious body. You just took me by surprise." You chuckle, "Firstly, there is nothing glorious in this body, secondly, you drew blood." "I apologised!" He feigns indignation.

You are kissing for a bit and then you ask, "And when did it happen for you, my Lord?" You think you know the answer. "When I gave you my sword." You thought wrong. You thought it was much later. "The sword?" He nods, "You were stroking the blade and then swirled it in your hand. And that is when I understood you were the one." What did you expect from a Dwarf? Obviously even their realization of finding their one beloved involves some weaponry of sorts. You smile in his earnest eyes. "And before it? What did you feel before?" In an innumerous time you silently thank Maiar for your gift of magic. It was what made him notice you that very first day, and you think it was his curiosity that made him remember your name.

You are wrong again. "Well, now that I understand my feelings better, I think I just wanted to get under your skirts," his eyes are mischievous. "You were attending to my patrol after that ambush on the river, and that robe of yours…" The palm cups your right buttock. "It is rather revealing." You are gaping at him. "You desired me then?" He guffaws. "I am not made of stone, my lady. And you are a spicy ickle thing." You gasp in shock.

You have been seeing all this story in a completely different light! He is chuckling. "Are you jesting, my lord? Because all these years I thought you have wandered in my room rather by mistake, and now it turns out you have been ogling my backside when I was bandaging your guard." He is openly laughing now. "And down the cut of your robe as well, when you were changing my gauze, honourable healer." He uses your old moniker, and it sounds positively indecent. What in Durin's name is that?

"You just told me you did not understand that I was offering you when I brought you to my room, but then you are telling me you were staring at my breasts even then? And how did I not see it?!" "I am a Dwarf, we are good scouts, we can be discreet," he looks very pleased with himself, and you swat his chest, but then his face grows serious and tender, "I desired you, but did not think you felt the same. And whatever I accused you of the next day, I could see you were virtuous and honest. I did not think you would ever offer your body to a man who was not your husband." "Did you think me a trollop when I did?" "Of course not, I offered you to marry me the next morning, remember?"

You chuckle. "You looked very angry then." He smiles back. "And you refused me." "I thought you were doing it out of obligation!" He gives a short barking laugh. "Oh I remember that part, you said you could not accept a proposal made because of some "mysterious Dwarven reasons", and I thought I was going to strangle you then. I was dying of unrequited love there, in the middle of your inn room, and you were standing huffing and puffing, full of indignation in a gauzy nightdress that honestly did not hide anything."

You are staring at him with wide open eyes. That is absolutely not how you remember it! You ponder it for a moment. "I was so scared of you then." "You know I would never hurt you, my heart, do you?" His hand cups your face, and you nod. And then he smirks, "I did break a chair that day though, did I not?" You snort. "And then you said it was my fault because I was so infuriating. But that is not what I meant when I said I was scared. Not of you, but of not understanding you. You seemed so dark and reserved, and I felt we were speaking different languages. I was scared of not being able to tell you what I felt and explaining myself. I was scared you thought me licentious." "I was a virgin but I was no imbecile, my lady. Your righteousness was quite obvious even to a blind idiot such as myself."

You lower your lips to his mouth, and he meets you half way. The kisses are unhurried and passionate. He rolls you over and is lying near you not to weigh down on your stomach. His leg is bent and he is pressing yours into the sheets. The hand slides on your breast, and you moan. They are sensitive, but so far it is a pleasant sensation. And then you remember something and tear your lips from his, "You bedded me without knowing that I was taking my herbs! How have I never thought of that before in all these years?! You bedded me not knowing I would not get pregnant!" You are staring at him aghast. He is smiling softly and then slides his palm on your stomach.

"I will be honest, once you started pulling my clothes off me, I was not thinking rationally, but the thought did appear at least once." He lowers himself and presses his lips to the round firmness through your undertunic. "How is that not a behaviour of a blind idiot, my lord?" He hikes up a brow. "I am only repeating your words, my lord."

He chuckles. "I was no idiot, I think I was actually quite smart. I found my one beloved and had a chance to tie her to myself until we are to join Mahal in the Halls of Mandos together. Indeed, I think I was being very smart." You are touched. Irritated at his blatant ignorance on the woman's right on governing her own body, but touched.

"We still ended up there, my lord, we just took a slightly longer path, I suppose." He kisses your neck and murmurs, "Indeed we did. And now," his hand slides on your hip and bunches up your nightdress, "enough talking." You laugh and grab his ears. You kiss him and purr, "Maybe just a bit of talking. Some instructions and those "more" and "again' that you growl in Khuzdul, my lord." He nips the skin on your neck, and you yelp. "Mahal help me, why did you have to learn the language?" "So that I could tell you to do this..." And you whisper into his ear. He growls, silences you with a searing kiss and proceeds to follow your instructions.


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N#1: ****Neewa****: re: the cover for "Thorin's Trust": I doodled it myself :)**

**A/N#2: ****Iamje****: You wanted Thorin courting Wren? Here you go! :D**

**A/N#3: THORIN RANT before you read the next piece: So, they released DoS on DVD couple days ago here… Needless to say, my feeling are in disarray :D All I can say is AAAAAHHHHHH! (feel free to quote me on that) :D But to the point of my rant... In the scene when Thorin and Co. are having breakfast in Beorn's house you can see Thorin's right ear and suddenly... an EARCUFF! Was it always there? How come I have not seen it before? Should I go back and rewatch every second of UJ to make sure? And most important, how can this man get any hotter?! I thought he has reached the highest possible level of sexiness, and then BOOM! **** I've never been so wrong in all my life :D Thus this fic:D**

_During the sixth week after Dain's birth, after the "You are mine" scene ("Thorin's Trust" Chapter 27)_

The day is rainy and dreary, and you are in an endlessly gloomy mood. You have spent the last two hours pretending to study your herbs book, but instead you reorganized your desk, ate too much jam, drew rabbits on a scrap piece of parchment, and braided and unbraided your hair three times.

There is knock at your door, and you groan. Queen or not, you still sometimes accept patients, especially those in dire need. Your magic has returned after the birth of your third child, and sometimes you can offer invaluable insight. You invite your visitor in, and the door opens. You see your husband, and you prim up in the chair.

For the last two weeks there is a tinge of an excited anticipation in your interactions. It sometimes reminds you of the five months after the Battle of Erebor when you were attending to his warriors in Dale. By then you had shared your first kiss, in the pantry in a passage in Erebor but it had never been mentioned since. On the other hand, it felt as if both of you knew that there was the tension and the excitement between you but neither would do anything to acknowledge it.

The same edginess seems to run between you two now. The glances are caught, his hand seemingly accidentally brushes yours so often when he passes by, light friendly banter at the table, and yesterday morning you found a small bunch of white flowers on your pillow. It is stitchwort, it only blooms in March. You cannot imagine how he procured it. The flowers are gentle, delicate, merry yellow anthers, tied with a red string. At the moment they sit in a small mug on your table, as fresh and jolly as the moment they were picked up, enliven by your magic.

"May I interrupt your work, my lady?" He is all decorum and manners, but the eyes are gleaming with mischief. You are fighting the urge to shift on your chair. As enamoured as you suddenly found yourself with him yet again, there is certain amount of apprehension in you. It is perhaps the caution coming from all the time you spent estranged from him, but you find yourself surprisingly uneasy in his presence sometimes. But you also crave it with all your heart and body.

"Please do, my lord. I do not seem to be able to concentrate on my tasks regardless." He closes the door behind him and sits on a chair in front of you. You chuckle. "Are you ailing, my King? That is the spot my patients usually take." He smirks lopsidedly.

"I am quite well, my Queen." His knee is almost touching yours, and you feel the skin on it tingle. You find it preposterous that he can affect you so much without even touching you. To distract yourself you look at his hands. There is small velvet sachet in his palm.

"I had a gift commissioned for you, my lady. I hope you would be so kind as to accept it." Your heart skips a beat, but then you are momentarily uncertain. You are wary of finding some ostentatious jewelry that you will either have to wear and feel ludicrous and out of place, or will have to hide in your jewelry chest and offend his feelings.

He chuckles, "Are you worried it is an opulent ring that you will not wear since you attend to patients, take care of a newborn babe and dislike sumptuous jewelry in general, my Queen?" His brow is lifted sarcastically, and you bite your lip to hide a bashful smile. You sometimes forget the wisdom and the wit of your husband.

He opens his palm and shakes an intricate jewel out of the sachet onto his hand. You see a silver piece, delicate and tasteful, and realize it is an ear cuff with two chains attached to it. The cuff seems familiar. You peek on his right ear and realize that yours is a smaller replica of the same shape and pattern adorning his helix. The chains go to the earring part, a hook with a clasp, and you stare at the central part, made to dangle from your lobe. It is a bird, in a flight, wing feathers fanned, round body, and you understand by its silhouette it is a wren. The chains connect the earring to the cuff but the bird has its own ring it hangs on. The bird is free from the chains.

"May I?" He moves even closer, and you tilt your head. You take the earring part and replace the silver ring you had in your lobe. And then he leans in and clasps the cuff onto your helix. The ear starts burning, from the touch of his warm fingers, from his breathe on it, and he murmurs, "Delightful..." A runaway curl on your temple bounces from his exhale, and you look at him from the corner of your eye. He is very close, but he is neither moving away, nor is he leaning in further.

Your heart is beating frantically, blush spreading from the ear to the cheekbone and even the neck. The tips of his fingers suddenly stroke the tendon on the side of your neck, and your breathing hitches. "Such an exquisite tint..." And then he sharply gets and leaves your study. You get up as well and pull a small mirror from a pantry. You turn your head and look at the jewelry piece. It is perfect. You bite your bottom lip and touch the little bird. It is fluttering, and so is your poor silly heart.


	40. Chapter 40

**Kith, **_**noun**_

_**familiar friends, neighbors, or relatives**_

_Some time in the six years after Thror and before Unna_

Fili twirls a sword in his hand and steps in front of you, shielding you. You make a step back, giving him space, and you feel Kili's presence behind you. He is facing the opposite way covering the other side. The wargs bare their teeth. There are two of them, and you follow the bigger one circling you with your eyes.

"How about that trick of yours with chopping a pup in two, my Queen?" Fili's voice is sunny. He is smiling, he always does in the anticipation of a fight. "Only when I am with child, honourable nephew." "Uncle should have tried harder." You kick him in the ankle. He barks a short laugh.

One of the wargs growls. "Come here, puppy, puppy, puppy," Kili's voice is lilting and mocking. Fili chuckles, "Leave the mongrel be, Kili, they might forget what they are doing here at all. There is not much in their noggins."

The first one jumps, and Kili slashes its chest with his blade. You always admired his fighting style, in all honesty you prefer him as your sparring companion. He is strong and deadly, but also fast and agile. You have a lot to learn from him.

Fili's throwing ax sinks into the second warg's forehead with a loud hacking sound. The heavy body falls, and the older prince buries his blade in the neck of the first beast. Kili dashes to the thrashing body of the one Fili has impaled and finishes the job.

"Remind me what do we need from that scary bear-man again, my Queen?" Kili is wiping his sword. "Should have stayed with others in the Mirkwood Halls. Uncle will kill us if he knows we let you go to Master Beorn on your own."

"But I am not on my own, honourable nephew. I have the two best warriors of Erebor with me." You pat Kili's shoulder, and Fili smirks. He nudges his brother with an elbow, "Common, Kili, it was fun. You have not have a decent fight in months. I am getting rusty." Kili is still pouting. "And besides," Fili's voice is teasing, "You just wanted to stay with your girl and snog in dark corners." Kili opens his mouth to protest, but you break the impending bickering, "Children, do not fight. Everyone will have their share of fun. We will go back soon, and Kili will get his sweet loving. And before it you, Fili, will get that honey from Beorn that you are so fond of."

The promise of sweets makes Fili even more cheerful. You start walking, and the younger prince catches up with you. He is still grouchy, but his tone is friendly, "So what do we need from the bear-man?"

"A jam recipe," he looks at you in shock. You chuckle. "Do not worry your pretty little head, nephew. Keep walking." Fili chuckles behind you two, and Kili shrugs.

"You are so married to our Uncle. It is always just "keep walking" and never where and why." "I will consider it a compliment, honourable nephew." Fili catches up and gives you a white toothed grin. "We could not have wished for a better aunt, my Queen." Kili bumps his shoulder to yours. "Aye, it is true. But now I want some of that honey too."


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: Today's Word of the Day fic is a test drive for a new idea. It might grow into a multi-chapter story (if you read it, you'll see the potential:), but I'm on a fence so far. But if you remember, that is how "Thorin's Trust" started, from a one-shot with the Elvenking Thranduil… **

**Duh duh duuuuuhn... :P**

**Recondite, **_**adjective**_

_**1. hidden from sight, concealed**_

_**2. difficult or impossible for one of ordinary understanding or knowledge to comprehend, deep**_

_**3. of, relating to, or dealing with something little known or obscure**_

_The story takes place in the Vales of Anduin, after BoFA the lands are inhibited by Northmen united under the rule of Beorn. It happens during Wren's fourth Spring in Erebor, when pushed away by Thorin's neglect she leaves for four months and ends up in Bree (see "Thorin's Spring" Chapter 4), but before that…_

You push the door of the inn, pulling the hood lower on your face. You are drenched, cold rain water trickling from your cloak. You approach the innkeeper and throw the money on his desk. "A room for a night, Master Dwarf?" You nod and pick the key he puts in front of you. Thick leather gauntlets and lined gloves hide the size of your hands.

You are dressed in male Dwarven clothes, dark red trousers and tunic, light chainmail, doublet, all hidden under bright blue, fur adorned cloak, the only difference is that you are wearing light comfortable boots up to your knee. But you have found over years that people see what they want to see. You turn around to head upstairs when a tall hard body clashes with you.

You peek from under the hood. He is indeed very tall, lithe, a mop of dark brown hair. "My apologies, honourable Dwarf," the man has a strong Northern accent. You give him a small bow and start walking around him. "Hey, Godnorian!" A local, large and obviously inebriated, pulls a Dwarven ax from a scabbard on his belt and takes a wobbly step towards you two. "You owe money, you scum!"

Two more step from a wall, and the Gondorian chuckles. "My chances here do not seem very fair, my dear sir, three against one," he has a husky fruity voice, with a slight drawl in it, and you have a better look. High cheekbones, chiseled lines of a jaw and chin, brilliant dark brown eyes, and a smiling mouth, strong line of lips, the bottom one full and sensual.

"I am certain even Master Dwarf over here would confirm that is not how business is done in here in the North of Rhovanion."

You take a step away from him, obviously showing that you have nothing to do with him, and he laughs loudly and merrily. The frolics rolls out of him openly, and white teeth gleam in the dim light of the inn. "Well, well, the widely known Dwarven reputation to always let other races sink in their own mire, as I can see, is indeed true." A couple of Dwarves sitting at a table by the wall jump on their feet.

You think with regret that as peppy and buoyant as he is, he will not live long to enjoy it. You notice a long bow on his back and a long one-hand sword in a scabbard. The clothing bears no markings but you have a feeling that if there were any it would be the White Tree on the green banner of the Rangers of Ithilien.

"And the Northmen under the rule of the honourable Skin-changer Beorn, will you not help a humble traveller, or you are still drowsy after the winter sleep?" He is laughing even more, and the rest of the people in the inn rise on their feet. You momentarily think that if this is his attempt to end his own life, he has chosen a vastly complicated approach. He could have just jumped off a cliff or on his sword. Less fuss, and less trouble for others.

The Dwarves rumble some swearings in Khuzdul, and the Northmen make a step ahead. "Don't touch this filth, he owes me money!" "He is ours now," the Dwarves pull their wide swords out of sheaths, and you see a white toothed grin on the Gondorian's face.

Several of his opponents make a step ahead at the same time, and you see that a young red-haired Dwarf places the first punch. The Northman standing closest to him oomphs and bends in half. His companion roars and lunges on the Dwarf.

You start backing off and somehow you end up near the wall with the Gondorian by your side. He looks down at you. "Not sharing the desire to cut my throat, Master Dwarf?" You are too preoccupied with looking for an escape route to answer him.

At that moment a Northman lunged at you with a growl, and you duck to evade his giant fist. The Gondorian catches him across his forearms and cuts him down under his ankle. He gives him a strong and decisive punch into stomach, and the heavy body crushes on the floor. "If I were you, my friend, I would either start fighting, or get out." He flashes his white teeth at you again and then jumps on the stringer of the stairs. He grabs the rails and with an easy grace throws his lithe body over them. Another leap, and he is swinging from a chandelier. With a forceful swing of his long legs he throws his body to a tall sill. The window leads to the roof, and you understand that it is the only way out.

Only a half of fighters in the inn notice his absence, and they are busy evading the punches from the other half. You run up the stairs and try to reach the window as well. You are not tall enough, and then his curly mop shows up in the window again. "Coming, Master Dwarf?" He stretches his arm, and you grab his hand.

He jerks you, and you hang on one arm. The hood falls back, and his eyes widen. "Give me the second hand!" You pull yourself up, grab his hand, and he pulls you through. When your upper body is already out of the window, you push from the sill with you foot, and the momentum throws you on him. He falls on his backside on the roof shingles. You are in his arms, and he is looking at you with a warm smile.

"Well, isn't it my lucky day? It is like finding a pearl in dirty river sand!" You push away from him and jump on your feet. You hear loud screams from inside, and some of the fighters tumble outside. You sprint across the roof, and he follows. You two slide and slip, jumping from roof to roof, crossing the small settlement, and then off the roofs you jump into the tall grass and run into the woods.

After a few minutes of vigorous jog, when the voices and lights of the settlement are left behind, you lean on a tree and try to catch your breath. He stops in front of you. He is obviously scrutinizing you. You assume he already knows who you are. You are not far enough from Erebor not to be recognized. Your hair and small stature are well known in these lands.

He straightens up and stretches his palm to you, "What is your name, fair maiden?" You looks at him askew. "Are you jesting, honourable sir?" He hikes up striking dark brows. He has magnificent eyes. You shake your head. "You are obviously not from around here." He laughs. "It is my first travel so far North. It seems I have been right not to venture in these lands previously. The climate does not agree with me."

You shake your head again. There is something endlessly charming in his ways, but you still remember that you lost money and a chance for a nice warm bed for this night because of his rascal ways.

"Have a nice continuation of your travels, honourable sir," you give him a small bow and start walking deeper in the woods. You can always climb a tree and spend a night on it. You have done it before, though you suspect the last four years of comfort and luxury might have spoilt you.

"Wait, you are going the wrong way! The road is there!" He points at the opposite direction. "Good day, honourable sir!" You continue strutting when you hear him catching up with you. It is not hard since his legs are so much longer. "Allow me accompany you at least. These lands are not safe." "Thank you for you offer, but I have to refuse. The least safe place in these lands is the closest to you." He chuckles. "It was just a misunderstanding."

You hum and continue walking deeper into the woods. He chuckles again and stops. You smile, he finally gave up. "At least give me your name, fair maiden." "Good day," you throw across your shoulder. "The name!" He is going to wake up the whole forest. You turn around. "Why? You will never see me again." He presses his palm to his heart, "I will keep it as a precious memory." You hesitate, but then you think, you will never see him again, and the last thing you need is for him to boast somewhere that he spent a night in the woods with a small redhead, only to later find out it was the azyungel of the King Under the Mountain. "It is Thea." He gives you a ceremonial bow. "I am honoured to meet you, my lady. I am Amrod." "And good night to you, honourable sir." You turn away and start walking.

The next morning you are splashing cold water from a small stream on your face when you hear a rustle behind you. You pull your sword out of a scabbard you placed by your elbow, and then you see him. He is leaning on a tree and smiling. "Good morning, lady Thea." He is dangling a food basket on his index finger, "Breakfast?"


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: And a bit more of Amrod-centered draft :P What do you think, my lovelies?**

**A/N#2: In my mind he looks like Auggie from "Covert Affairs" played by Christopher Gorham. But you can imagine any hot brown-eyed hunk in his place if you want :P**

You straighten up and push your sword back into its sheath. His posture is relaxed, and you gently prod your magic. You do not possess much gift but whatever you have allows you to see in the hearts of men if they do not purposefully try to close them from you. The heart of the Gondorian is pure and kind. So is his wide smile.

You sigh. You are very hungry after all. "I will accept your offer, honourable sir, if you promise me the food is not stolen." The dark thick brows jump higher, and he chuckles. "Then you will have to stay hungry, lady Thea." You shake your head.

You are sitting on a fallen tree, he is on the ground, immensely too close to your knee. The pies are excellent, and so is the cider. You are eating in a surprisingly comfortable companionship. He has elegant long fingers and exceptionally good manners for a vagabond.

"So what does an erstwhile Ranger of Ithilien doing in the Vales of Anduin?" You pop a slice of apple in your mouth, and he stops chewing. And then he turns his face to you, swallows and gives you a wide smile. "How did you know?"

"The accent, the facial bone structure, the bow, and that," you point on the scar on his forearm, his sleeves rolled up, "is from a Haradrim sword." His laughing eyes are roaming your face. "And how do you know that, my lady?"

You put another slice of an apple into your mouth and give him a closed lipped, sly smile. He shakes his head. "You are a mystery indeed, my lady. Dwarven clothes, a Dwarven sword, the royal forgery no less," you lift a brow, and he smirks, "I know my weapons. And besides all, you thought I should know who you are, honourable lady." He leans back on the log, and his face is very close. "So who are you, oh glorious lady Thea?"

He has remarkable eyes, warm and astute, unusually dark, deep brown colour, framed by thick black lashes. "I am just a traveller, just like you, kind sir." He smirks and clanks his flask to yours. "Fair enough. And where is it that you are travelling to, my lady?" "East," you are not being purposefully vague, you honestly do not know where you are going. You know what you are running from though.

Something must show on you face, as he suddenly pats your knee with his large palm. "Something tells me you do not like the climate in these lands either." You nod. And then ask yourself why you are so open with him. You look at him from a corner of your eye.

His posture is relaxed, one leg bent, another stretched in front of him. Long green cloak, brown and green attire, reminiscent of his former service, but bearing no markings, no banners, no Kingdom. "And where are you heading, my lord?"

He snorts. "I am no lord." "I am only returning the favour. I am no lady either." He turns on his side and supports his head on his hand, elbow on the log near you. "You are wearing an expensive attire, new boots, from Dale, if I am not mistaken, and when you bent to the stream a silver ring on a chain fell out of your collar. What does it tell us?"

You press your palm to the ring hidden under your clothes. It is a heavy silver band bearing a Dwarven rune, a simple but dear token of affection from the King Under The Mountain. You heart clenches. That is the affection that is no more, his love has passed, and you are sitting on a log with a stranger, lost and confused.

You shudder and look at the man beside you. His eyes are warm and candid, and you immediately feel better.

"It tells us that I am a person who still wants to know the answer to her question," you give him a pointed look. He is gaining time, rummaging through the basket. He pulls out a slice of honey cake, wrapped in paper, and places it on the log.

"I cannot say I have a specific destination in mind, wherever the road takes me," he unwraps the cake and then licks off the syrup that got on his long index finger, "East sounds rather nice at the moment," he gives you a cheeky grin.

You look at him in surprise. "Honey cake?" You lean down to pick up a piece, when he pushes his body up from the ground and his face is an inch away from yours. You gasp, his expressive walnut eyes are inviting, gleaming with mirth.

"Are you a free woman, lady Thea?" His voice is lower, seductive. You know what he is asking about. "No, I am not." He flops back on the ground, seemingly not disappointed at all. Then he breaks off a half of the cake and throws it in his mouth. "I am still heading East though."

You are staring at him baffled. He is chewing and takes a drink from his flask. And then he notices your expression. He chuckles and moves closer again. "I am sure your Dwarven lover will miss you." "No, he will not," and then you bite your tongue. He is so easy to talk to that you forget all caution. He is pondering it. "Then he is fortunate that you are so honourable," and then he picks up your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles. "And not fortunate that I am not."


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N: And the glorious King Under the Mountain is back :D**

**Utopia, **_**noun**_

_**often capitalized: a place of ideal perfection especially in laws, government, and social conditions**_

_Twelve weeks after the birth of Unna, Erebor_

He falls back on the bed, his body glistening from sweat, his breathing spasmodic, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Mahal, woman, what is it with you today? You are insatiable!" You are laughing, rolling over him and settling on his chest. His palms lie on your back, and he rubs it up and down. "I have missed you, my lord. And as I cannot attend to my patients now, caring for your daughter, I have all this time to think of and anticipate your return." You press your cheek to his chest, "I tend to make plans..." He snorts, "And then try to fulfill all of them in one night." "I feel very inspired with you, my lord." He pulls you to his lips. "I have missed you too, kurdu…" He smiles into your eyes, an open loving smile, "And I do enjoy your fervour. Please, do not change." You put your head back on his chest and start drawing patterns on his chest.

"Are you not jealous when I am away, zundush?" The question seemingly comes from nowhere. But you smirk, you know that it is a ploy for him to inquire if he has any reasons for jealousy himself. When confronted he realizes that he is being absurd, but he has a habit of being suspicious. "No, my lord, I trust you completely." He hums, and you peek. He looks slightly peevish, and you hide a smile. He obviously was trying to trick you into the discussion so that he could investigate.

"I put a spell on you, my lord, the first night we spent together, so now I know of every time a woman touches you." Your tone is grave and since he cannot see you face, he does not know that you are biting into your bottom lip to suppress laughter bursting out of you. He jerks and pushes you up so he can look into your eyes. "Is it true?" There is no guilt in his eyes, just pure shock, and you cannot help it anymore. You roar with laughter and fall into the sheets. He is staring at you with a befuddled expression, and it only adds to your merriment.

"Are you jesting, kurdu? Is there a spell on me or not?" You are panting, trying to catch your breath, your stomach actually hurting from the frolics, and you wipe tears from your eyes. And then you straddle him and press your palms into his chest. You look him into eyes and ask, "Does it matter though, my lord? It is not like you have anything to hide. You do not desire any other women but me." He ponders it shortly and then smiles, a wide white toothed grin, "Indeed I do not." You nod and shift your pelvis on him. He chuckles. "Honestly, woman, it is dangerous to leave you alone. But since you are already there..."


	44. Chapter 44

**A/N: Just a spoof for all of you, my lovelies! :D I am finishing a bag of crisps, it's my day-off and I am in an exceptionally good mood :)**

**Onoeiric, **_**adjective**_

_**of or relating to dreams; dreamy**_

You wake up with a jerk and shake your husband's shoulder, "John, John..." You are trembling, the dream was terrifying. There was a war, and fire raging through lands, kingdoms falling, death and devastation everywhere. "What did you call me?!" His gruff voice is a hiss, enraged and menacing, and you realize who you are. You are staring into the blue eyes of the King Under the Mountain. "Who is John?" He snarls through his teeth, and you shy away. In the moonlight you can see his narrowed eyes and clenched fists. A strange thought floats in your head. The words are "bloody hell" but the meaning of them is unknown to you. You know you have just a few moments before you are faced with a berserk Dwarf. "You are, my lord. It is your name in my dreams." He is scrutinizing your face. He will not find any deceit in it. "Why do I have a different name in your dreams?" "I do not know, they are just strange..." "How strange?" He seemingly returns to his senses and moves closer. "We are in them together but they are strange… There are cities that I have never seen before, people in unusual clothes, horseless carts..." "Horseless carts?!" "Yes, and people talk to each other from great distances..." His suspicion and anger are gone, and he is looking at you with a sceptical air around him. "And how often do you see them, my Queen?" "Quite frequently, especially now," you rub your round stomach. You are expecting your second child. "Have you thought that perhaps it is the copious amount of stew you consumed at dinner?" He is settling back in the pillows. Cantankerous Dwarf! A minute ago he was ready to decapitate you in jealous madness and now he is nuzzling your hip. "Go to sleep, kurdu, and do not call me by any other name..." You make a scornful noise. "I am still married to you in most of them. And you are still impossible to deal with..." He yawns and pulls you down into his embrace. "And yet you always choose me..." You press your body into his and murmur, "Always..."


	45. Chapter 45

**A/N: I fell a bit behind with my AWADs, catching up now :)**

**Cockamamy, **_**adjective**_

_**ridiculous, incredible.**_

_Othin is seven years old, Erebor_

The King is pushing you into your bedchambers, and you are laughing salaciously. You might have had a bit too much wine at dinner. It was just the two of you, and your mood was light and merry, and you have not noticed how you drank four glasses. You had a lively discussion, interrupting each other, laughing and bickering, and you kept on sipping. And wine always has the same effect on you. Your inhibitions slip, and the King gets shamelessly ravished. He is quite obviously counting on it, since he is already jerking off his doublet.

You swirl in the middle of the room, and he is grabbing the hem of your skirts. You twist out of his reach, laughingly throatily, and then stumble. He catches you and steals a kiss. You bite his lower lip playfully, and he pushes you on the bed. With an oomph you land on your stomach, your bum boosted up, and he is rumbling. Under no circumstances you are allowed to call it purring, which only makes you do it more often. He presses his knee into the bed between your legs, and the scorching palms slide up, from your knees under your skirt, hiking the layers of velvet and silky underskirts up. You moan and claw at the bed.

His mouth presses into the skin of your nape. And then he raspily whispers into your ear, "I am going to make you scream, my Queen." You moan louder and press your hips up into his bulging member.

"Adad?" Othin's happy voice comes from somewhere above your heads, and you immediately sober up. The King jerks your skirt down and straightens up. "Othin, where are you?" A dark curled head sticks out from above the top of the canopy. Neither of you noticed the weight of a small sturdy body pressing down on the heavy fabric that he is obviously using as a hammock.

"I am here, adad," Othin is smiling, but then again he is always smiling. There are myriads of different grins, smirks and smiles in his arsenal. This one is smug, he is very proud of himself. He climbed on a dizzying height and was not discovered. It is also very much past his bedtime, and he somehow managed to escape three nannies and a guard at his door. Not even Unna, who was an escape artist in her childhood, could manage such feat.

Othin throws his legs over the edge of the canopy, and you press your palms to your mouth. Then he slides down and his bare stomach is hanging in front of your eyes. He is holding to the curtain rod firmly and confidently. The King jumps on the bed and grabs his youngest son across his middle. They both fall on the bed, and you exhale in relief. And then you press your fists in your hips. "Othin..." Your voice is menacing, but you are not dealing with either of your older children. That is Othin we are talking about.

"Did you see me, adad? I was this tall!" He is wildly gesturing in the air. He sits on the broad chest of his father and grabs his ears to make him pay attention, "On the top, adad, very tall!"

The King gives you a pitiful look over his son's shoulder. He is very fond of Othin's stunts. Othin is not afraid of anything. Anything that would scare a grown up Dwarf out of their senses, only causes Othin to grin wider. Water, heights, wild animals, landslide… Othin lives for thrill. You shake your head.

There is only one thing Othin is afraid of, and that is your wrath. From the earliest age he has assumed his older siblings' fear of your temper, their father a soft clay in their hands. Right now he is so proud of himself, but you have the power to shatter his exuberance. But it is very hard to do under the pleading gaze of the King's blue eyes. You sigh.

"You should take your son to his room, my King. No doubt, his nursery maids are terrified and are running through passages looking for him." The King jumps off the bed, his son under his arm, giggling and swinging his sturdy legs, and they quickly disappear into the passage, chatting amicably, before you changed your mind.

You flop on the bed and close your eyes. And then chuckle. You need a new lock on your chambers' door.


	46. Chapter 46

**Lodestar, **_**noun**_

_**one that serves as an inspiration, model, or guide**_

"Ada!" Othin's voice is irritated. He is glaring at you. You pretend to not hear him. He is supposed to be playing in his corner of the library, inside a playpen built specifically for him. None of your other children needed that much restriction. "Ada!" He sounds surprisingly like the King when he thinks he is not receiving something that is rightfully his. You lift your eyes from the book you are reading. "Adad is busy, Othin. He cannot spend all his days with you. When he has time, he will come." Thick dark brows draw together. "Ada..."

You sigh and get up. You come closer and scoot in front of the wooden bars. You felt heartbroken when the playpen was first commissioned. Keeping your own son in a cage seemed like an appalling idea, but after a seven-month Othin was found on the top shelf of one of the armouries you had no other choice. He manages to escape even the watchful eye of experienced Royal guards.

"Would you like me to read you a book?" He smiles and stretches his hand to you. There is a toy wooden sword clenched in a small chubby fist. "You want me to fence with you, Othin?" He smiles wider. You take a sword out of his sweaty palm, and he grabs a shield. You sigh and climb over the fence. You kneel in front of him to equalize your height and gently move the sword towards him. You expect the round wooden tip to poke his round tummy but instead it hits the shield with a dull thud. Othin peeks from behind the shield and gives you his best mischievous grin.

He cannot yet stand but he is hiding behind a shield. You stare at him in shock. Then you poke again. He is swift, he even rolls into a tight ball, his sturdy little legs and arms not sticking out from behind the wooden circle.

You spend the next hour having so much fun that you do not notice the King entering the library. He finds you lying on the floor on your back, balancing your youngest son on your stretched arms, his stomach on your bent knees. Othin is squealing in delight.

"Ada!" You put him down and he is holding his hands out to the King. He gets picked up and twirled around the room. They both are laughing, and you smile enjoying the warmth and happiness of having these two men in your life. The King lowers Othin back into the playpen and picks up a sword. "Would you like to play, Othin?"

The youngest prince of Erebor pouts in the exact replica of his father's expression and demandingly proclaims, "Ama!"


	47. Chapter 47

**Oblige, verb**

_**1. to earn the gratitude of;**_

_**2. to do a favor for or do something as a favor**_

_Esgaroth; Thror is 9, Unna is 3_

Your company is entering the newly rebuilt city of Esgaroth. It is a late evening, mist veiling the houses on the sides of the street your procession is following. After the Battle of the Five Armies the King was wise enough to establish amicable relationships with the new city of Esgaroth. The Master, wiser and more honourable than his predecessor, was chosen from and by the city dwellers for his wit and acumen. The King is paying him an official visit and honours with his presence the wedding of his firstborn son.

You are to stay in his house for one night and leave at the end of the next day. It is your first trip without your children since Unna was born, and you are thoroughly enjoying the independence and carelessness that such travel brings. The King is throwing you mischievous looks. You both share the fondness for occasional night outside your home, new chambers and unfamiliar bed adding a delicious thrill into your lovemaking. Judging by the way the King is licking his lip, he has abundant plans for you tonight.

You are riding your favourite pony, Buttercup, heavy Dwarven cloak covering your face, several layers of travel garments and a chainmail giving you a stockier appearance. Your procession is passing a dock, several boats freshly anchored, people rushing back and forth, carrying cargo and loudly arguing.

That is when you see her. She is as short and lithe as you remember her, her former blond hair now silver, but the posture is the same, proud and spirited. She is barking orders to the bargemen. She is vigorous and determined, although leaning her weight on a cane she clutches in her hand. You suspect it is quite often used for discipline rather than a walking help.

Your procession passes the dock, and you are too stunned to say anything, or do anything, and even understand your own thoughts. You keep your eyes on her for as long as possible, and then your pony turns around the corner, and you cannot see her anymore. You finally take a breath in and press your lips together. The flurry of thoughts in your head is dizzying. You soon reach the Master's house and the King helps you dismount. He notices the change in you and looks searchingly into your eyes. "Is everything well, kurdu?" You force a smile on your lips. "Yes, yes, my lord, just lost in my thoughts."

The evening is full of copious amounts of delicious food and drinks and exuberant merriment. You remember your role as a Queen and spend the evening supporting the King's effort to strengthen the relationships between the two cities. You amicably chat with the Master's wife and daughter, sharing their excitement about tomorrow's celebrations. You reminisce of your own wedding, and all together the evening is a success.

The King pushes you into the bedchambers and hurriedly locks the door behind him. He divests you of your evening dress you have changed into for the dinner, and then he proceeds kissing every inch of your body. He is passionate and thorough, and all thoughts vacate your head. You enjoy each other three times. After the first, fierce and untamed, you both grow slow and tender. He supports your back while you are riding the waves of your second climax, sitting facing him, your legs crossed behind each other backs. He achieves his release in a few deep thrusts and moans deeply. You two fall into sheets, but soon enough you are reaching for each other again. This time you straddle him and in sweet, languished rocking movement of your hips you bring you both to united completion.

He pulls the covers over your cooling bodies, and you turn on your side. He moves closer to you, envelops you in his massive arms, in the warmth of his beloved, familiar body, and his nose is pressed in your hair. You feel his hard, hot chest with rough hair pressed into your shoulder blades, and you sigh.

"What is it, my heart?" He is stroking your hip with the tips of his fingers. "I saw my mother in the docks, she was overseeing the unloading of cargo from a barge." He sharply sits up. "What?" You do not turn to him, and you feel his stare on your nape. "I guess they brought the furs for trade to Esgaroth. I did not know she still lives." Your voice is hollow and lifeless.

His hand gently lies on your shoulder, and he rolls you to look into your face. And then he gives you a soft loving smile and wipes tears off your cheeks you were not aware were there. "I have not seen her in twenty years. She has not changed much..." He pulls you up and into him, and you are kneeling in front of him, face pressed into his neck. Your hands slide into his hair, and your fingers run into the wide metal bands hidden there at the ends of thick braids.

Everything about him is familiar, warm, loved, and loving. He is your home, your heart, your soul. You let out a choked sob and feel his hand stoke your back. "Do you wish to talk to me about her, my treasure?" You shake your head. He knows of how you ran away from your parents' home to avoid being married out and after that travelled and served as a healer all over the Middle Earth. You do not wish to return your thoughts to those early days. He nods and presses his lips to your shoulder. He is slightly rocking you, making comforting noises, and you relax into him. You nuzzle his skin, breathe in the dear smell. You close your eyes and remember who you are. The wife, the mother, the Queen… You are not the skinny undesirable girl in Enedwaith. His love and his devotion envelop you, protect you, give you strength. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his ear.

"I do not wish to talk at all, my lord," and then you gently bite the lobe, and your hand splays on his hard stomach below his waist. He chuckle, "You are endlessly changeable, my Queen." "I am not," you look into his eyes and feign indignation, "I am very consistent, my lord. I always desire the same thing. Or to be precise, the same person." He smiles back to you and catches your mouth in a kiss. "And I highly appreciate your constancy, my lady." He pushes you into sheets. His hand slides between your legs but his face is tender, considerate. He caresses your folds with the tips of his fingers, and then he spreads your legs and pushes into you. He is murmuring ardent assertions of his love to you and in slow determined movements he brings you to your climax. You arch into him and the release floods you like fire and heat of the forges of Erebor. He is still in you, bestowing gentle caresses and kisses on your oversensitive body. "It is your turn, my lord." He smiles into your skin. "We do not have to..." You cock a brow in surprise, he has never before passed his opportunity to reach a peak of pleasure. "It is about you, my heart, tonight it is about you." You stroke his nape and sensitive ears, and then pointedly push your hips up. "Your release is for me as well, my lord. It pleases me no less than it pleases you." He chuckles but his hips starts moving. "Here you are wrong, my Queen, you cannot possibly feel as good as I do when I know your body." His eyes close, and you press your lips to his temple. "Let us see, my lord, let us see..."


	48. Chapter 48

**Cock-a-hoop, **_**adjective**_

_**1. **__**triumphantly boastful; exulting;**_

_**2. awry.**_

_Right after the second meeting with the King Under the Mountain (see AWAD #16); Dale, the winegirls inn_

"Thea! Thea!" You are rushing inside and find the usual picture. The winegirls are sitting around a large table, eating and drinking, chatting loudly. As always when they occupy the common room, it is also full of men of all ages and vocations, hoping to snatch a bit of attention from them.

"Thea!" You are yelling so loudly that your voice is carried across the room over the blather and laughter of the girls and the music. Some turn their heads and look at you in astonishment. You know most of them, but neither has ever seen you behaving like this.

Thea jumps from her seat and rushes to you. You grab her hand and drag her outside. The night is starry and fragrant, crickets singing their exuberant songs in the grass, the air full of aroma of flowers and herbs.

You swirl around and grab her upper arms. You do not reach the shoulders. "He is there!" You are breathing heavily and pronounce every word separately. "In there! In my infirmary! He is in there and... he is there!" She is staring at you in confusion. And then the understanding dawn.

"Your Dwarf? Your majestic Dwarf is in your infirmary?!" Yes!" She squeals. "And he is not my Dwarf! And he is hurt! Oh, he was enduring it so bravely, they removed an arrow head out of his shoulder! Right from the deltopectoral muscle!" You realize that you are screaming each phrase.

Thea wrinkles her nose. "None of the gory details, Wren. Just the interesting things. Such as… Did they have to cut his tunic to bandage him?" You grab handfuls of your hair. "Thea, concentrate! He is there! I am going to embarrass myself!" You groan. You will, you are certain. It has been weeks since you saw him, and you cannot stop thinking about him. There was not a single night without you having a dream about him. Most of them you could not retell even to Thea. And he remembers your name.

"He remembered my name!" You are yelling again. "Thea! He called me lady Wren." "Polite too, is he? How serious are his injuries? For how long is he staying?" You start running in small circles in front of her. She is watching you in amusement. You are spinning like a pup trying to catch its tail. "At least a fortnight. Some of the warriors sustained more wounds than others..." You grab her again, and she jumps up.

"He is glorious, Thea! He is so..." You squeeze your eyes and breathe out. You have told everything to Thea, but omitted one small detail. You conveniently forgot to mention that the Dwarf who has turned you into a blabbering and quivering mess is indeed the King Under the Mountain. You felt it would be disrespectful.

She grabs your hands and leads you to a bench under a tree. "Alright, Wren. Sit here. I will be back in no time." You let her push you on the bench, and she disappears inside. You drop your head back and stare at the branches above you. It is an oak tree, and you stretch your hand up. With the very tips of your fingers you touch a dark green, leathery leaf. Oak… You rub the strong smooth surface between your fingers.

You are suddenly flushed, remembering the feeling of his scorching skin under these very fingers. Given you touched him through the bandages, but your felt the heat emanating from his body. You think of the long lush lashes, so out of place on the cold stern face, and the astonishing blue eyes that they frame.

Thea flops near you with a bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands. "Oh no, Thea, I am not drinking. I have just worked a double shift, and I have another one tomorrow at noon." She pushes a glass into your hands, "You need at least a glass, you need to calm your nerves." You sigh. "You just want me to tell you all the details." She sips her wine, and then her eye fly to your face. "Is there something to tell?"

You hide behind your glass. The wine is exceptional. Winegirls always get the best of cargo that arrives from Esgaroth and Mirkwood. "No, of course not. I was not even the one to tend to him. The Chief Healer obviously did it." "Why obviously?" You bite your tongue. If you are not careful she will pull everything out of you. "He is of noble blood. Old Dwarven family." You are not lying.

She hums. "What was he wearing?" "I was tending to others. By the time I saw him only a tunic and bandages on his upper body." You look up again. Now that you are familiar with the physique of Dwarves better, you realize how singular his is. The broad chest, the muscles emphasized by the thin fabric of the dark blue tunic, massive upper arms visible as the sleeve had to be cut off. He also has narrow waist and hips for a Dwarf, most of them are more bulky, almost square. You sigh.

"Do you mind to share all these salacious thoughts that are obviously swimming in your spinster head right now?" Thea is giving you an impish grin. "He is beautiful, Thea… Even for those who would not even look at a Dwarf, he is glorious… And the hair…" You take another sip and immediately regret it. You already feel like telling her of his curved lips and how desperately you crave to touch his beard. Or have it pressed into your neck. Or stomach. You choke on your wine.

Thea is studying you. "Did you just imagine hanky-panky with your Dwarf?" Never in the annals of all history one could imagine hanky-panky with Thorin, son of Thrain! A night of passion perhaps, and some might have imagined it. Those very same people would stop themselves at the thought of divesting him of all those layers he was wearing the day he caught you in his halls. Firstly, because it is just a self inflicted torture, to yearn for an unattainable man.

And secondly, who knew what Dwarves even look under those attires? Well, now you do. And you are, as Thea calls it, salivating. She might be using a different word, but the right anatomic term is salivating. You are burning, carnal hunger aching and overwhelming in your body. You press your hand to your forehead. What is this madness? You have never felt like this, even towards your lover. Given you only had one, but you had copious amount of fornication on regular basis. You did not desire him even in the hundredth part the way you are craving pressing your body into Thorin Oakenshield.

You jump on your feet and start running in circles again. "Put your glass down, you are splashing the wine!" Thea is chuckling. You comply and stop in front of her. "Why did it have to happen? Why? Not only it is madness to desire him, but why did he have to be in the infirmary?"

"For you to have a better look," Thea is laughing now. "I have never seen you so bedraggled, girl. Actually, I have never seen you interested in a man before. You are all or nothing girl, aren't you, Wren?" You inhale sharply.

You suspect you must be enjoying inflicting emotional pain on yourself, since you sit down and start telling her of how he looked, his luscious hair disheveled, eyes burning in concern for his warriors, and then the warmth you saw in his eyes when in his amusement he was looking at you rocking on the heels of your feet. Cursed habit! How soft his lips look, how thick and dark the beard, and how it frames his noble jawline.

Thea seemingly forgot about her wine. "Wren, I have never heard anything like that coming out of your pretty little mouth! What kind of spell has this glorious Dwarf put on you?!" "Thea, it is not just him! Remember you wanted to know what they are like? I will tell you!" You speak of the hot scorching skin, so much rougher than that of Men, of solid hard muscles, of the large hands and feet, and you see a sly smile on Thea's face.

"Wren..." Her voice is low but you have already lost any regard for propriety. "Yes, Thea, exactly as you suspected, yes…" She clasps both of her hands to her mouth. Her eyes are begging you to elaborate. You show with two index fingers. "No!" She is bobbing on her bum, shaking the bench. "Oh Wren, can you imagine when it is erect! Oh wait, it does work the same way, right?" "To my knowledge, yes."

It is her turn to jump on her feet and run a circle around the bench. "And the hair? Tell me about the body hair, Wren! I so love myself a hairy chest!" "Plenty of that as well." The collar of his tunic was open, and you had a good look. You imagine pressing your palms into a naked chest of King Under the Mountain, treading your fingers through the black hair there, and you understand that the wine is working.

"I know you are all for tall and lithe and smooth, Wren..." "Not anymore," you sound adamant, and you stare at each other. She starts laughing first, and you join her. You are soon roaring with laughter, the shock of seeing him and many hours of exhausting work finally taking their toll. You are sliding down from the bench and stare up in the sky. You are sitting on the ground, your head dropped back, enormous stars and waxing crescent of Summer moon above you.

"It is not all carnal desire, Thea," your voice is quiet, and she sits near you, her shoulder pressed into yours, "I saw his heart, looked into his eyes, Thea. He is beautiful inside. Lonely, broken, tired, but beautiful…" You gulp and sigh deeply. "There is the capacity to love there, Thea… One day a woman will come by and will be so fortunate to capture his heart..."

"Wren, enough with the mushy talk," Thea's voice is sharp, and you jerk. She is not fond of feelings. She is right though, what is the use of tearing your heart even more? You turn to her and see that she is frowning. She grabs your shoulders and makes you look into her eyes. "If you want him, Wren, you can have him. There is no other woman, there is no someone else capturing his heart! If you desire him, you need to get him! Lie, steal, forge, do whatever it takes but if you want him, if you want him with all your heart, there is no better woman for him." "But he is a Dwarf!.." "Which is only good! More joy for you!" She cannot last two minutes without her mind plummeting down into her gutter. You smile to her and pull her into embrace. "Thank you, Thea. You are a wonderful friend." "That I am," she smiles back at you, "And now more details, Wren. Tell me more about the chest hair! How low does it go?"


	49. Chapter 49

**A/N: It is my birthday, so Wren gets one too :) She doesn't get a tattoo as a gift like I did though :) **

**Impecunious**_**, **__**adjective **_

_**having little or no money.**_

_After the Battle of Erebor (the one I invented), within the 5 months before "Thorin's Morning After", Dale_

Your shift is over, and you hurry out of the infirmary. The day was busy, but you are not feeling tired. You agreed to visit Thea today, she just came back from a trip with another company of wine merchants. You foresee an evening of her exuberant stories about hardships of the road and eloquent descriptions of local goods she sampled. And you do not mean food and drink. You feel that a merry evening with her is exactly what your restless and anguished heart requires.

Thea and some other of the winegirls you know were fortunate enough to be away when the Orc army attacked the Front Gate of Erebor, another wing simultaneously spilling in the streets of Dale. You were fortunate enough to be in the heart of Erebor with the King Under the Mountain who for some mysterious reasons offered to show you around and even allowed you to pick up his first sword from a table it was displayed on when the first wave of the monstrous foes hit the stone walls of the Lonely Mountain. The very sword that you have locked in your trunk in your room, the sword that as his most loyal lieutenant Dwalin, son of Fundin informed you is now yours.

You are rushing through the infirmary yard, hastily nodding to a few recovering Dwarven warriors sitting on the bench, enjoying the last rays of the Spring sun. "Are you leaving already, Khazad Bahinh?" A young Dwarven warrior yells to your back, and you turn around to smile to him. An older Dwarf gives him a smack at the back of his head and speaks in Khuzdul, _"Show some respect, lad! This is the woman who saved the life of your King!" _You smile and wave back at them. You bite your lip, you are very pleased with yourself. Although the book you possess is rather deficient, you seem to be making extensive progress in the secret language of the Dwarves. Afterall, you are very motivated.

You reach Thea's inn and open the door into the common room. You are met with a loud cheer of many voices and all your senses are assaulted by noise, and bright colours, and delicious smells. There is obviously a buoyant party going on in here. Thea scoops you in tight embrace. "Happy birthday!" Everyone cheers again, and there is glass of wine pressed into your hand. You turn to her, "But, Thea, it is not..." "Let us hear it for the birthday girl!" The crowd goes wild.

There are familiar faces, winegirls and former patients, a few merchants and acquaintances, and plenty of those whom you have never seen in your life. You take a large sip from your glass and lift it. "Thank you all for coming! Let us be merry!"

Five hours later, you fall out of the inn into the fragrant Spring night, your head spinning, idiotic wide smile on your lips. Two of the winegirls are dragging Thea out, giggling and shushing each other, and she is swaying and gesturing wildly. "No, you do not understand, Wren! I sometimes think you do not even see it! We all need it, it is connection, it is passion… And it is so good!" She drawls the last words, and the girls laugh louder.

Estel, a voluptuous blonde, pushes Thea on a bench and leans heavily on the trunk of a tree. "She is right though," she has the most gorgeous low voice. They all seem so beautiful to you now! You are very fond of them on everyday basis, but the fact that you feel like smooching all three of them tells you that you might be slightly drunk.

Aerin shushes her. "Stop it you two, at least one of us has to stay a virgin! Might get herself a good husband. Or even better so, live happily without a man poisoning her life every hour!" Aerin has married her childhood sweetheart, and there is not a single day when she does not regret this decision.

Thea laughs out loud. You chuckle as well, "Too late for that, Aerin, but thank you for wishing me a nice husband. Although I hardly think that will happen," you are unreasonably cheery about it, "Have you seen me?" All three of them start reassuring you, and Estel pulls you into tight embrace. You feel you might suffocate in her opulent bosom. "Men have diverse tastes, birdie! For some you are the most delicious tart!" She lets you go and pats your shoulder.

"Well, they might have diverse tastes," you flop on the bench near Thea, "But I am the worst possible choice for the one I desire." You are honestly not upset. With wine coursing your blood and after all the eating and dancing you feel that somehow it will all make sense eventually. You look up at the stars.

The girls are exchanging glances. "We did not know there is a man that interests you," Aerin says quietly. And mournfully, since she tends to be endlessly pessimistic about any relationships with a man, and calls any girl with a hint of romance in her life "poor ducky." Thea guffaws. "Our Wren has gotten herself quite a piece of work." You giggle. "I have not gotten myself anything, Thea," somehow tonight it feels like there is hope though, and you smile to your friends. "Forget it! Let us go back and dance! There is so much in this life besides men!"

You jump on your feet, but Estel grabs your sleeve. "We actually have a gift for you, Wren." "Oh, you should not have. It is not even my birthday! I do not even know when it is. Orphan's luck," you are smiling, it never bothered you before. "That is why we decided that it is today, silly goose," Thea is smiling back, "You told me it is sometime late Spring, and from now on it is on this day." You laugh, "Agreed. And thank you!"

Aerin pulls out a small sachet our of her bodice and shakes onto her palm a pair of small earrings. They are lovely, silver and delicate, in shapes of small tree branches, with tiny green stones. "It is not much..." Estel starts but you grab her around her neck and hug her tightly. She oomphs. "Oh Maiar, you girls! This is the best birthday I have had in my life! Come here all of you! I love you!" Thea and Aerin join you, and you feel tears pooling in your eyes.

"It is your first birthday, you nonsensical cow!" Thea is laughing, but her voice is suspiciously nasal too. "And whatever happens in my life, it will still be the best! Forever and ever!" You are squeezing them tighter, and Estel giggles. "Our skinny modest birdie is groping my boob!" You all roar with laughter, and your embrace falls apart.

You stare at the earrings on your palm. As little light as it comes from the half open front door of the inn, you can see that the decoration on the earrings are shaped like oak tree leaves. You lift your eyes at Thea in shock, you have never told her his name. She smiles to you, "I know how fond you are of oaks, no idea why," she shrugs, "We thought they will bring you luck." You wipe tears with the back of your hand and put your gift on. They oh and ah, praising how the stones bring out your eyes, and how lovely your neck looks. Considering it is dark and all of you are intoxicated, you just take it and smile to them.

"Inside, my lovelies! More wine and more dancing!" They cheer, and grabbing each other hands you all rush inside. You are greeted with music and loud voices. Before someone's hands pull you into a circle of dancers, you gently touch the silver oak branches in your ears, and for a second you see a pair of blue eyes before you. You smile and let the music swirl you and carry away all your thoughts.


	50. Chapter 50

**A/N: For ****Just4Me****! Thank you for your reviews and your support, and this is something your review of the last chapter of "Thorin's Defeat" made me think of.**

**Incorrigible, **_**adjective**_

_**Incapable of being corrected or reformed.**_

_Erebor, Othin is two years old_

You are stomping through the passage leading to your bedchambers, followed by a very quiet King. You storm into the bedchambers and as soon as he closes the door behind him, you spin on your heels and clench your fists. You step closer to him and hiss, "Explain yourself, my King!" You are keeping your voice down, you do not need all Erebor to know that you are ready to bite the King's head off.

He lowers his eyes and stares at the floor. "Well?" He sighs, "I was a jealous fool?" "Are you asking me, my Lord? Because I do know the answer to this question, but I would very much like to hear your judgment on the subject. Do enlighten me, my Lord, how is growling and snarling at the first born son of your ally is good diplomacy?" "It is not," he is repentant, but it does not mollify your fury.

You start pacing the room. "I do not understand, he was not inappropriate! His conduct was impeccable! And he is just a boy! I could be his mother! What made you jealous?" "I do not know," he rubs his face with his large palms, "I have no power over it, it just… flares..." You stop in front of him and frown. "Flares?"

"Yes," he drops his head, "I see a man looking at you, and I just cannot seem to… As if I do not see anything anymore, and just the images flash in front of my eyes..." "Of what?" Surely, he does not imagine you in compromising positions with other men.

"Leaving, I imagine you leaving." He looks at you, and his face is vulnerable, undefended. "Thorin..." You frown and shake your head again. "It is preposterous, why would I leave you? I am your wife, we have children together, I belong here." He steps closer and picks up your hands. You allow him.

"I do not doubt your love, kurdu, but sometimes I think… What if you happen to change your mind? What if another man?.." "What? Comes and sweeps me off my feet? And I forget all my duty and my responsibilities and flee in the middle of a night to be with my lover?" You feel enraged again.

"If it happens, I would prefer you to," his voice is hollow, and you jerk your hands out of his. "What? You would prefer me to leave you?" He nods gravely, "Than to stay out of obligation? Yes, I would prefer you to go."

"And the children? Do you want me to take them as well? Or are you going to deprive me of them?" You do not even remember why you two are having this conversation. You are so stunned by his admission that you are shaking. "I do not know, I try not to think of them…" His face contorts in pain, and suddenly you return to your senses.

You throw your arms around his neck. "Thorin, we are two fools! Why are we even talking about it? It will never happen!" But he does not yield, "You do not know that, you cannot command your heart..."

The old pain clenches on your heart, the words of the man dying in your arms many years ago on the lips of your husband. You step away from him. "What do you mean? My heart belongs to you." "For now," he is stubbornly bowing his head.

"Always, it always does. And it has never belonged to another!" He clenches his fists. And you seem to understand. "Is that what troubles you, my lord? All those years ago you did not ask and since then you have always wondered, have you not?" He turns away from you but you know him too well. You walk around and cup his face. You make him look into your eyes.

"I did not love him. Never, for even a second, even for a moment, have I preferred him over you." His eyes are searching yours. You feel tears pooling in yours. "I mourned him, his death, the light that was gone from the world when he perished, but I never loved him." The King pulls you into himself, and you allow him.

"And the Elvenking?" You make a scornful noise. He is hiding his face in your neck. "Are we back to this ridiculous conversation, my lord?" "Yes," his voice is a bit brighter, a bit more mischievous, and you sigh. Impossible Dwarf!

"Neither have I favoured the Elvenking over you, my lord," you pronounce it in the tone that clearly lets him know that he is being absurd. He chuckles in your neck and nuzzles your skin.

You should be angry with him and condemn his unreasonable behaviour, but you are in a rather unfortunate position here. You are in love with him like a green lass. "I am still angry with you, my lord." You do not sound very convincing even for your own ears. "Then let me make it up to you, my Queen," he scoops you into his arms and starts carrying you to your bedchambers. You promise yourself you will have a serious conversation with him later and pull at the string at the collar of his tunic.


	51. Chapter 51

**A/N: I'm sick with a cold and was cocooning and watching DoS. Hungry neglected Thorin makes me sad. Thus this... :D**

**Truckle, **_**verb**_

_**to act in a subservient manner; submit.**_

_Wren's third winter in Erebor_

The King walks into the bedchambers, snow melting on the collar of the heavy, fur adorned cloak on his shoulders. He jerks it off and throws it on a bench near the entrance, shakes of the metal capped boots and the coat.

You are lying on the bed, a book in front of you. He heavily sits on the bench and finally looks at you. You smile to him. "Evening, my lord." He gives you a small warm smile in return. "Evening, zundush." He stretches his legs and leans back on the wall. He looks tired, and his eyes close. They are cleaning the snowdrifts on the higher levels of the mountain after a violent blizzard. A few buildings on the side of the mountain were torn down, snow penetrating into the halls, breaking barriers, crushing windows. The winter is harsh this year.

You jump off the bed and approach him. He straightens up on the bench, and the massive arms encircle your waist. He presses his forehead into you. "Would you like a bath before your dinner, my Lord?" He nods, and you stroke his hair. It is wet from the snow. You lean and kiss his ear. His skin smells of outside, of snow and crisp cold.

You extricate yourself from his embrace and walk to the bath chambers to tend to his bath. The hot water is rushing down from the chute in the ceiling, and you rummage through the bottles of herbal essences. When the bath is ready, you return to the chamber only to find the King nodding off, leaning back on the wall. You smile.

"My lord," you shake his shoulder, and the icy blue eyes open. You pick up his hand and pull him up. He sighs and gets up. You lead him to the bath chamber and proceed divesting him of his garments. Buckles clank, and layers fall on the floor. "Arms up, my Lord," you are pulling off the last shirt and pull the strings on the thin breeches left on him. You shove them down and gently push him towards the tub.

While he is soaking, you return to the bedchambers. You throw the clothes you picked up from the floor into the dressing room, bring clean shirt and trousers to him, put them on a chair near the tub, place a quick kiss onto the tip of his nose, untangle from his arm that immediately snaked around your middle, return to the bedchambers, call servants to bring the King's dinner, start the fire, open the door, receive the tray, put it on the table, arrange plates and return to the bath chambers.

The King's eyes are closed, features relaxed, and you admire the noble profile and the curve of the lips. The eyes lazily open, and he beckons you with his hand. "I'd rather not, my Lord, this dress will not endure swimming well." He smirks. "The dinner is served, and you should not spend too much time in hot water." He nods. He quickly washes his hair, rinses it and gets up.

You pick up a large sheet from a pantry and wrap the King stepping out on the floor in it. He catches you around your waist again, and there is no escape from his mouth. He is exhausted though, and you manage to slip away after a few minutes.

While he is getting dressed, you throw more wood into the firepit. He comes out and sits at the table. You put a mug of ale in front of him, and then notice that he is not eating. The spoon in his hand is frozen midair, and his eyes are on the stew in front of him.

"What is it, my lord?" He lifts his eyes at you, strange emotion swimming in them. "Is this a stew?" You look in his plate. You do not seem to see anything strange about his dinner. "Yes, my lord, it is indeed a venison stew." He is still staring at it. You look at it as well. Juicy large cubes of meat, merry orange carrots, parsley leaves that soaked the juices in and opened up to their former green glory, red and yellow beans, plump little mushrooms, and golden slices of dried apples, now succulent and glossy, you do not find any flaw with his dinner. He picks up a spoonful of it and puts it in his mouth. He is chewing it, and his eyes close in pleasure. He hums, and then suddenly he throws the spoon in his plate, and pulls you to him.

He presses his face to your stomach and nuzzles you. His hands are gripping you almost painfully, and he seems to be taking short breaths in. "It is a very good stew," his voice is choked, and you lift your brows in surprise. What is he all about? You pick up his spoon and try the dinner. The taste is usual, potatoes, carrots and beans giving it a hearty rich base, apples and herbs adding flavour and aroma. Just as you suggested, the cook used dry cherry leaves for flavouring the broth, and you are rather pleased with the stew.

You look at the crown of his head in confusion. The hair is wet and shiny, and you scratch the back of his head. You like his strands right after the bath, soft and smooth, faint smell of soapbark and honeysuckle.

He is still hiding his face into your dress, and you start feeling worried. "My lord, is everything alright?" He emits a shaky laugh. "Yes, everything is excellent. Everything is taken care of, the bath, the dinner, the clothes..." You are obviously still missing something. He takes a shuddering breath in. "Just stay like that for a jiffy, zundush..." "Alright," you do not understand but comply. You are running your fingers through his hair and feel his hot breath on your stomach.

After a few minutes he straightens up, his face calm and composed. He picks up his spoon and starts eating his dinner. You watch him for a few moments and then shrug. You return on the bed and go back to your book. The King is enjoying his dinner, and the comfortable silence floods the room.


	52. Chapter 52

**A/N: OMG, I feel like I emotionally traumatized you, my lovelies, and now you expect something horrible and tragic every time! In the previous AWAD my idea was that after years on the road and not having a proper home Thorin just gets all soft and mushy because his home is now clean and cozy and smells nice, and she is taking care of him, and the stew is awesome and colourful and delicious :) **

**Maybe I should cut down on drama for a bit, "Thorin's Defeat" seems to have bedraggled some of you too deeply :)**

**Inkhorn, **_**adjective**_

_**ostentatiously leaned, pedantic**_

_Any time after Wren and Thorin are married_

You fall on your backside with an oomph, and Fili is laughing, white teeth gleaming, the golden mane shaking. You get up with a groan, rubbing your buttocks. You momentarily think that there will be angry purple prints on it tomorrow. "Should we continue, my Queen?" You twirl the training sword in your hand.

"Yes, honourable nephew, I do not feel sufficiently humiliated yet." He is grinning.

"It is just that I have twice as many fighting hands than you, my lady," he is holding a sword in each.

"And Orc attacking me might have as many. Although, I have almost no chance to meet one as dexterous as you are, nephew."

You stubbornly stand in the plow stance. He charges ahead, and you make a small step, transitioning your body and charging your blow at his chest. You remember to hold the hilt to the side and keep yourself centered between your feet. Nonetheless, he blocks your attack and binds your blade. His wide agile body swirls, and his blade is pressed to the back of your neck. You growl.

"You are too by the book, my lady. Do not get me wrong, it works in a real fight. I doubt Orcs are familiar with the advanced swording techniques that you are showing. It is just for me you are too predictable." He is smiling sunnily, and you take your stance again.

The sword is heavy, and you have enough strength for only one more bout. You start the same way, from the plow stance, visibly lowering your upper body, going for an obvious glide, and when he blocks your attack, you sock him in a jaw with your fist encircling the grip. You are careful not to apply too much strength though and make sure the pommel does not scratch his face. His eyes widen from such a dirty trick, and he misses your cutting attack on his wrist. His sword falls on the ground, and he is roaring with laughter.

"Mahal help me, my Queen is a dirty swordsman!" You are chuckling too.

"You said I was too much by the book!" He picks up his sword and then gives you a lopsided grin.

"I seem to recognize the move, my lady. Should I even ask in what circumstances my uncle showed it to you?"

Furious blush spills on your cheeks. You remember that night. The King was clad only in light breeches, you were wearing his shirt. Since instead of swords the two of you were using letter openers, you had to stand very close, and the training session quickly became a competition in forbearing. The bet for each unblocked attack was a kiss, and not on the lips. Each one of you was ardently trying to lose.

Fili smirks and offers you his hand. "Shall we go inside?" You nod and chuckle. You need to ask the King for another training session, that one proved itself very fruitful.


	53. Chapter 53

**Minutia, **_**noun**_

_**a minute or a minor detail**_

___Just a few glimpses into their life…_

NO, THANK YOU…

You are sitting in your bed, a book on your lap over the covers. The King slides under the blanket and stretches his tired back. He is settling in the cocoon of the blankets, puffing air peevishly, tossing and bunching the comforter, in a sequence of endlessly familiar movements and noises. Finally he curls into your side and nuzzles your hip. You chuckle and blindly tread your fingers in his hair. You scrape the back of his head, and he hums in appreciation. "Would you like me to put out the candle, my lord?" "No, thank you," his voice is sleepy, "I like watching you when you are reading..." You look at him sideways, but his eyes are already closed and his breathing is deep.

XXX

You are leaning on the door frame. The King is standing over the crib, his face soft and tender, large hands locked behind his back. His head is slightly tilted, and he is watching the sleeping form of his first born son. This is the second night since Thror's crib was moved to a separate room, a bedroom of his nursery maid adjoint to it. It is in the same passage as your chambers, only two doors away. You have sufficiently recovered after the delivery, and you two have returned to your marital intimacy. As it was decided, Thror was not to sleep in your bedchambers anymore, as neither of you is good at keeping your voice down during lovemaking. "Would you like to go to our chambers already, my lord?" A soft loving smile twitches the corners of the King's mouth, and he gently picks up the corner of Thror's blanket with two fingers. He pulls it over his son's shoulders and gently tucks him in. "No, thank you," his voice is warm and quiet, "I will stay for another minute..." You smile and leave for your bedchambers.

XXX

You are nodding off, when the King's weight presses on the other side of the bed. He slips under covers, and his hand decisively slides around your middle. The hot large palm splays on your stomach, and you feel his lips pressed into your nape. He pushes your braid to the side and nuzzles the back of your neck. You chuckle. Does he think he is being subtle? And then you sigh, "I am sorry, my lord, but not today… You will have to wait for a few days." The lips still on your skin, and he exhale sharply. "Are you certain?" He sounds grumpy. You chuckle. "Yes, my lord, it is rather hard to misunderstand." He rolls away from you, and you turn to look at him. He is staring at the canopy, face peevish, his obvious erection tenting the covers. You slide your palm on his stomach in return and murmur, "Perhaps I could..." He presses his palm over your hand. "No, thank you," he turns and looks at you with an unexpected loving smile, "I would rather wait. I would want to share pleasure with you." You press your lips to his cheek, and he sighs. He scoops you in his arms and kisses your temple. "Just a few days..." He sounds so wistful that you giggle. "Good night, my lord." "Good night, kurdu."


	54. Chapter 54

**A/N: I missed a day and now I am faced with the two latests Words of the Day that are "aplomb" and "feral", which are, to think of it, the two primary states of our dear Grumpy :) Perhaps, the people in Merriam-Webster are also Thorin fans :) **

"And then they started discussing whether they should roast us slowly, or…" The eyes of the children widen, and Dain presses closer to Othin. Othin is predictably smiling, but the little fists are clenched. The King leans closer, and you see Dain biting into his bottom lip in a miniature replica of your gesture. Unna, who heard this story before and is reading in her father's armchair, looks at you over the book. You are pressing your lips together to suppress a smile.

"Or what?" Dain breathes out, and Othin's eyes are roaming his father's face. The three of them are sitting on a fur rug by the fire, their legs crossed in identical poses. "Or mince us and boil us!" The King makes a ferocious face, and the boys jump up. You hear a sound suspiciously sounding like a snort behind Unna's book. The King straightens up and makes a nonchalant face. "Well, they could also eat us raw of course, but then they thought that squashing us in jelly was the best option."

"And did they?" Othin's blue eyes are burning. Dain stirs out of his petrification. "Are you dim, Othin? Does adad look squashed to you? Obviously they escaped!" Othin gives the King an evaluating lookover. The King's face is blank, his posture calm and poised, and you shake your head. He has an amazing talent for schooling his face in any expression he deems necessary.

"And how did you escape? Did you chop them in pieces with Orcrist?" Othin's ferocity knows no limits. Dain looks interested as well, he shows such exceptional gift with his wooden sword, that even older warriors come to observe his training. He is the youngest Dwarf to ever start his sword training in the yard as opposed to his own rooms.

"How would I chop them if we were in sacks?" The King is looking between his youngest sons. "Did you have a hidden blade?" "Did you bite the rope with your teeth?" "Did you roll into the fire and the bag burnt?" The boys are shouting their assumptions interrupting each other. The King is shaking his head. Othin claps his knee in disappointment, "Well, I do not know then…"

Suddenly Dain's face lights up, "Did amad save you?" The King hikes up his brows. From the corner of your eye, you can see Unna lowering her book and look at her father as well. Othin rejoices, "Did she? Did she come and chop the trolls in pieces?" Dain snorts derisively again, "Of course not, Othin, I am sure amad talked to them and convinced them to let adad and others go."

They both turn their heads and look at you. You are looking at your husband. He is smiling to you, and then turns to his sons and solemnly nods. "Yes, amad came and saved us all." You start laughing. "Do not listen to him, I was not on that quest. I did not even know your adad then."

The children look at their father again. "That is not how I remember it," the King's face is absolutely serious, "I remember the bushes moved, and your mother stepped out of them, in shining armour, blue cloak on her shoulders, a long Dwarven sword in her hand, and then she frowned… Do you know the frown?" The boys are nodding frantically, and to your surprise you see Unna's curly head nod as well. The book is forgotten on her lap, and she is listening to her father. "She frowned at them, and they started shaking in terror."

The King's eyes are shining, and the children move closer. "She pulled the sword out of her scabbard," he seems to have forgotten that you supposedly had it in your hand when you heroically stepped out of the bushes, but the children do not notice, "And then she swirled it in her hand, and said in a very stern voice, 'Put the Dwarves down that very moment, or I will be very disappointed in you!'" The children are holding their breath.

"And?.." Dain's voice is full of hope. "And they let us go. And cowardly ran away to the woods, never to be seen again." The children breath out in relief. "You are lucky she came to save you, adad," Dain is shaking his head, "Or you would have been squashed or minced..." He shudders in disgust. "Not a very noble death…" The corners of the King's lips twitch. There is a limit even to his composure.

"I am an endlessly lucky Dwarf, Dain," the King ruffles his son's chestnut curls. Othin is absorbed in his thoughts. "Would not it be more heroic if you chopped them in pieces with Orcrist?" He looks at his father with his blue eyes, "Then you would be the hero and can have the treasure! And this way it is amad's treasure."

The King chuckles, "All my treasures are amad's treasures, Othin, we share everything. And no, it is very good that amad is the hero, I have her, and she is my treasure." Othin wrinkles his nose, "Is it something about love and marriage again?" That is when you reach your limit. You start laughing loudly, and Unna joins. Othin looks at you in confusion.

"Why are you laughing, amad? Adad calls you his ghivashel all the time, and when you both have these mushy faces, then you two are talking about love and marriage, and that is much more boring than trolls and chopping in pieces with Orcrist."

The boys get up, it is time for them to return to their rooms. You embrace both of them, Dain lingering in your arms, Othin trying to escape quicker to save his face, but you know he expects you to stop by in his room before his bedtime when he can indulge in hugging you without "tarnishing the warrior's pride".

In the door frame Othin turns around and looks at his father, "Thank you for the story, adad, it was still very interesting, although at the end it still became about mushy stuff." They leave, and Unna follows.

You come to the King, and he catches you around your waist. He seats you on his lap, and you wrap your arms around his neck. You draw your brows in a mock reproach, "You have lied to your children, my lord. I definitely remember not being on this quest with you." He is nuzzling your neck and then presses an open-mouthed kiss to your throat.

"I think my story was much better than an old wizard distracting them and them turning in stone, while all of us were stuffed in bags like sheep," he is smiling into your skin. "And what is it about me in shining armour and holding a long Dwarven sword, my lord?" Your tone is playful, and his palm slides on your backside. "I do love my Queen in armour," he is sucking on your neck now, "Perhaps a sword and a helmet, and..." You drop your head back, and he is growling, "...and nothing else." You laugh throatily and grab handfuls of his hair.

"Well, since I saved you from death through squashing into jelly, I am entitled to some reward." "Anything you want, my Queen." You lean in and whispers in his ear. His eyes widen, and he jumps on his feet, throwing you over his shoulder, your bum up. You squeal, that is not a very dignified position for a Queen. He guffaws and starts striding to your bedchambers.


	55. Chapter 55

**A/N: It is going to be a three-shot "3 Baskets of Laundry" united by the motif of laundry (I hate folding laundry! :D), but what will be in the next two I have no idea, depends on the Word of the Day :) I am just posing more challenges for myself for fun :)**

**Mangle, **_**verb**_

_**1. to injure with deep disfiguring wounds by cutting, tearing, or crushing**_

_**2. to spoil, injure, or make incoherent especially through ineptitude**_

**3 BASKETS OF LAUNDRY**

_Dale, right after Chapter 7 of "Thorin's Morning After"_

Every time you fold laundry in front of Thea the proceedings are the same. She gives you a few reproachful side glances, then she picks up one item from the basket holding it by the very edge with the tips of her fingers, her nose wrinkled and brows frowned in disdain, then she gives you a deep sad sigh, and shakes her head. And then she tells you how "men fall in love with their eyes, and women with their ears." Except her statement is usually much more crude, "love" replaced with "sack," and "ears" with another part of female anatomy.

Today is no different. Except you are the first to speak this time. While she is staring in disgust at your plain undertunic, her own lacy and exquisite undergarments already folded and carefully placed in a silk lined basket, you fidget with a pair of your simple drawers and mumble, "Thea, remember that Dwarf I mentioned?" She lifts her eyes at you, "Perhaps you have mentioned one a time or two." She is grumpy, she is judging you. Thea loves clothes, she lives for them. Your choices make her sad. Let us face it, unlike you she has a lot to decorate. Putting an opulent luscious dress on you, on the other hand, is like decorating a twig with a Summer Solstice wreath, put simply, useless and humiliating for both participants.

"So that Dwarf..." You just cannot bring yourself to start talking, but she is a good friend. She sighs and puts down your undertunic. Her face is obviously showing that she is subjecting herself to the torture of listening you talking about feelings only because she loves you deeply and forgives your flaws. "Yes, Wren, the one you met in Erebor, have been pining over for months, fought in a battle with and whose life you saved. And oh, we should not forget, whom you deflowered two weeks ago and were crying over in a drunk stupour," she just cannot let it go, "oh, did I mention you snatched his purity?" "You did, just an instant ago." "Yes, Wren, you deflorated him," you instantly regret expanding her vocabulary, "and repeatedly bedded in a course of one night and half of the next day, including performing at least one fellatio," damn her vocabulary again, and there were two, but you would rather die than correct her, "and you did not feel obliged to share details about it!" She lifts her brow pointedly.

"I told you everything!" "I am certain, you have not, and demurely mumbling and vaguely gesturing does not count as sharing the valuable knowledge with your friend, Wren!" You hide behind a tunic that you are folding. "And that is a disgustingly plain colour, Wren! Only you can wear a tunic of swamp water colour and find it acceptable! You are hopeless, you need to buy some cambric and go to that seamstress at the docks. The frock she can make for you! No Dwarf will be able to resist!"

You chew on your lips, "Well, you see, Thea, the Dwarf I mentioned, well, he did not." She is staring at you with her narrowed eyes. "Pardon me, Wren?" "He came back, the day after we talked about him… The next day after he and I..." You blush and make vague gestures with two hands, intertwining your fingers and letting go. Thea gives you a pitiful look. "He came back for me..." She is thinking it over. You are bracing yourself. And then she grabs a folded sheet from the bench you are sitting on and smacks you to the head. "Are you an imbecile, Wren?"

She lifts her hand again, and you cover your head with your arms. "What did I do?" "You refused! Why else would you be sitting here and not enjoying yourself legging off with your Dwarf in the mountain city?!" You wince from the crudeness and its complete inappropriateness when used regarding this certain Dwarf.

"I did not refuse him! I did not! I told him to come back for me on the Autumnal Equinox, and then I will go with him to Erebor!" She freezes with the sheet in her hand. You breath out in relief. And then she smacks you again. "Now what?" You are rubbing your head and try to smooth down your curls that immediately seized this chance to bounce out of your hairdo. "And you are only telling me this now?!"

"I could not bring myself to, I still cannot believe it myself..." You feel the corners of your mouth droop mournfully, "I cannot believe I agreed to leave everything here and go..." You press your hand to your forehead, you feel dizzy just thinking about it.

Thea lowers the sheet and looks at you attentively, "So, Wren, let me straighten this story in my head… Your Dwarf came back for you, offered you to go with him to the mountain city, and do I understand it right, to be his wife?" Now you feel nauseated, this part worries you most. But before you tell her that it was your idea to wait three months and that you refused to marry him to protect your independence, which will cause another storm of sheet smacking, you need to disclose one tiny detail you might have failed to mention to her. The rest can wait.

You slightly move away from her on the bench. "Before we talk about what is going to happen to me there, I need to tell you something..." Thea narrows her eyes. "Yes, Wren?" You gulp. "His name is Thorin Oakenshield, and he is the King Under the Mountain." You blurt it all out in one long word, which sounds like "Hinamesthorinoakenshieldnhisthekingnderthemountain" and shrink away from her.

The pause stretches. She is sitting in front of you taking short shallow breaths in. And then the sheet attacks start again, "Are you out of your cursed mind, Wren?! Hiding this from me?! Are you mad?!" You are whimpering, the blows do not hurt, but she is still terrifying. "Do you know how I feel right now, Wren?! Do you know how I feel?!" "No," you are whining trying to avoid another smack.

She lowers the sheet, "Betrayed, Wren, I feel betrayed." She is serious, and you stare at her. "Why did you think you needed to hide this from me? I am your best friend, Wren!" You drop your head, "I felt it was not my secret to keep." You hear her sniff and lift your eyes at her. Her eyes are indeed red. "Oh, Thea, I told you everything I could. I swear, I would not think of hiding something from you, if it was mine to tell."

She wipes her eyes. "And how did you endure all this yourself, Wren? The things you must have thought…" You try to smile, but you are still so raw from all the turbulence of your decision and what proceeded it and overwhelmed by the uncertainty of your future that it comes out as a grimace. She presses her palms to her burning cheeks. "Oh, and you agreed to go with him! Does that make you a Queen?" You groan and hide your face in your palms.

"Can we talk about what I am going to do in Erebor in a minute or two? I really cannot stand this conversation right now..." You look at her pleadingly, and she readily nods. "I think I need some time to think it over myself, Wren, because if he is the King, the story becomes..." And then suddenly she freezes, and her mouth falls open. Her eyes are distant, and she makes a strange noise.

"Thea?" "Thorin Oakenshield..." "Yes..." You are looking at her in confusion. "The King Under the Mountain?.." "Yes. What is it, Thea?" "Taller than most Dwarves, dark hair, blue eyes, impressive nose, the body to die for?" "What?!" You are staring at her.

"I have seen him. When we came back to Dale, and it turned out the city had been attacked while we were away… And I came looking for you in the infirmary, and he was leaving, and someone told me, "Look, it is the Dwarven King, the King Under the Mountain," and I said I wish I was that mountain..." She is still lost in her memories, and you grab the sheet and smack her to the head. With force.

"That is my Dwarf you are talking about right now, Thea! Snap out of it!" Her hazelnut eyes focus on you, and she smiles widely. "Oh Wren! You are the most magnificent trollop I have ever met in my life!" She jumps off the bench and goes down on one knee in front of you. She grabs your hand and reverently lowers her head. "From now on you will be known as Wren, the Queen of Big Fish!" You cannot help but chuckle. "You are the Goddess of Seduction and the Queen of Dwarven Cocks! You are the Divine Bobcat in the Sack!" You are plainly laughing now.

And she flops on her backside and presses her palm to her forehead in the exact imitation of your previous gesture. "Maiar, Wren, you are in trouble!" You could not agree more.


End file.
